


Soul Shadow

by hjbender



Category: The Legend of Zelda: The Ocarina of Time
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Multi, Post Ocarina of Time
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-15
Updated: 2016-01-21
Packaged: 2018-05-14 03:49:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 26,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5728528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hjbender/pseuds/hjbender
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A major rewrite of an old work by the same title. Link returns to his childhood and grows up peacefully in Kokiri. But as time catches up to him, it is soon made clear that not all is well. A trace of Ganondorf's evil still remains, and now it's endangering the future of the entire world...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Darkness

In the days of creeping darkness, shortly after the eerie silence descended upon the Lost Wood and the waterfalls of Zora River froze solid, after the plains of Hyrule Field grew shady and treacherous, the gloom that dominated the land became a breeding ground of monsters. While the evil of Ganondorf Dragmire slowly poisoned the kingdom of Hyrule, the shadow that followed a heroic young Hylian gradually took on a life of its own—the offspring of the natural world and the Gerudo Lord’s own powerful magic.  
  
The being had no breath, no conscience, no self-awareness. It was born from darkness and guided only by a compelling need to follow its master. It had no concept of fear or pain or death; it was numb to all things it touched, yet was distantly aware of the world through which it passed. It could hear music, voices, the sounds of battle. It could see its surroundings, but there was no sensible mind with which it could try to understand them. Not that any of this mattered to the shadow—it had no dreams or intentions, no allegiance with one side or the other. It simply _was_ , and it followed the steps of its shadow-maker, unaware of its tenuous connection to him in a world where the very air was saturated with evil. These malicious spirits, always seeking to corrupt the elements closest to their own kind, grasped and tore at the shadow until it at last became separated from its owner. It fled its attackers and wandered about the land, lost, aware for the first time of its desperation and loneliness.  
  
Ganondorf discovered this shadowy being shortly before he infiltrated the underwater temple of Lake Hylia, and recognized its potential as a tool to destroy his strengthening foe, the Hero of Time.  
  
Using his necromantic powers, Ganondorf bestowed the shade a physical body, flesh and blood and bone, whose features were molded into a dark replica of its own lost master. He kept his new pet locked in a room filled with grim illusions of the world above: a bleak spit of narrow land, a single leafless tree from which nothing grew, and a watery floor that reflected only the mist hanging above it. He whispered lies to the being, promising that all of its desires would be granted if it would destroy a certain intruder, one with golden hair, who carried a sword and traveled with a fairy companion. The being, now with dark eyes of its own, understood the lies only through the hunger that gnawed at the emptiness within it. And so it waited as it had been told, watching with new eyes for the intruder whom it would destroy.  
  
The one with golden hair.  
  


* * *

Link was not afraid when he found himself in a vast landscape, ankle-deep in water as far as the eye could see; he was, however, uneasy. There was light from above, but no sun could be seen. The entire place had a disturbingly artificial, stale quality to it. Even the fog felt unnatural. Navi fluttered out from beneath the folds of Link’s hat to scan the surroundings.  
  
“Watch out,” she said. “We’re not alone.”  
  
“I know,” said Link, having been aware of a presence from the moment he first entered the chamber.  
  
He took a few cautious steps forward, the water sloshing quietly against his boots. He narrowed his eyes, searching the mist for any sign of life. He spied the dark form of a gnarled tree emerging out of the nothingness: an island. He approached and found nothing unusual or dangerous, at least by the standards of Hyrule’s currently horrific state. He ventured across the room and discovered that its vastness was only an illusion—there was a door of dark wood set into a misty wall just ahead. Link tried the iron handle, but it was locked. Dread dropped its heavy hands onto his shoulders and squeezed. This was precisely as he had feared: something was in the room with him, and he would not be allowed to pass through the enchanted door until it had been defeated.  
  
“Keep close, Navi,” he said, drawing the Master Sword from its scabbard as quietly as he could. “I’ll need your help when the battle begins. I can hardly see through this mist.”  
  
The shadow that had been watching Link from within the veil of fog manifested the sword it had seen him unsheathe, thoughts consumed with nothing but destruction for what it saw: the Intruder, the One with Golden Hair.  
  
_Golden?_  
  
It hesitated a moment, perplexed. There was something familiar about this enemy, something which caused the shade to delay its attack. The intruder’s body was identical, his movements predictable and reassuring. He produced sounds that the shadow seemed to remember from a time very long ago, a distant dream full of connection and belonging. He came from a world of color and life and light, a place much bigger than this hazy prison of gray; a world that, the shadow knew, it had once been a part of.  
  
But then the deceitful whispers, the shallow promises, rose hot and violent in its mind, and it tightened its swarthy hand upon the hilt of its sword. This creature, no matter how familiar or beautiful it was, had to be destroyed. Only then would the hungry fires be quenched. The Gerudo Lord said so.  
  
The shadow struck without warning, and the colorful being countered and struck back. A blue light darted above the pair, crying out directions and warnings in a small, sparkling voice. _The fairy._ The shadow ignored the tiny creature and focused on its foe, repelling and returning the blows with an effortless, almost clairvoyant pace. It stared into the powerful blue eyes on the other side of its sword, contemplating how something could not change its shape yet convey a variety of . . . _things_. The shadow knew nothing of emotion, but an idea began to form in its dim little mind, the idea that this creature possessed something that made him unlike anything else the shadow had ever seen. It lay beneath those eyes, the thriving presence of something untouchable and eternal, alive and yet unable to die.  
  
As they strove against one another, the shadow reached through the depths of Link’s eyes and began to learn, drawing out pieces of him in the form of memory, movement, voice, color, form, emotion. He struck Link’s left arm and the Master Sword went skidding onto the shore of the little island. Link had no time to draw another weapon—he continued to fight with his shield alone, pushing and slamming and blocking, lashing out with a punch or kick whenever he dared. Sparks exploded as metal clashed on metal. The more frustrated Link grew with his deflected attacks, the stronger his opponent seemed to become, feeding off of their encounter like a parasite upon an angry host.  
  
The shadow grew excited the more it learned, knowing that this was what it had so desired since its creation, to connect with this familiar, mysterious source of power, to see it and feel it and hear it. It was as close to being alive as the lifeless shadow could get. But one thing it did not realize it was absorbing was a vital characteristic inherent within every human being: free will. And with that will comes the consequences of poor judgement; we call them many things, but the most apt description would be “mistakes”.

In that moment, the shadow became a person. No longer was it a mindless shell that acted upon instinct and need. The strings had been cut, and now the puppet moved, thought, and lived on its own. And that was where it— _he—_ fell.  
  
Link spotted the vulnerability in his foe and, using a well-aimed strike with the edge of his shield, sent the dark blade flying into the air. He reached out and caught it by the hilt before it could fall to the water. The shadow cried out in a voice very much like the figure he was mimicking and recoiled, stunned and confused.  
  
Link did not hesitate. He darted forward, driving his opponent’s sword deep into his shoulder. The shadow gasped, indeed, he breathed for the first and last time, and he clutched his own blade in his hand, clenching until black blood ran down to the hilt and across Link’s fingers. The blood was warm.  
  
Link looked into the face of his foe and watched the black, blank eyes go still with death. He pulled the sword from his enemy’s body and dropped it into the water, where it disappeared with a splash. A dark mist rose like a cloud of flies from his enemy’s crumpled body and fled into the surrounding fog. The sight made Link’s skin crawl.  
  
He crouched down and carefully washed the blood from his hands. Then he waded over to the island and picked up his sword, returning it to its sheath with a clean, metallic snick. He turned, and the door across the way that had once been locked now stood ajar.  
  
Navi was visibly perturbed, fluttering erratically around Link’s head. “That thing, it looked just like you! . . . Link? Link, are you all right?”  
  
He did not answer until they reached the door, whereupon he turned and gazed out at the realm of mist. He said, “I feel as if some part of me just died out there, Navi.”  
  
As the door closed itself behind him and his quest continued on, he had no idea how wrong he was.


	2. Home

It was finished.   
  
Ganondorf had been destroyed and Hyrule was at last freed from his malicious grasp. Every soul in the kingdom rejoiced, and every voice lifted the name of their savior in song. Princess Zelda reassumed her position in the monarchy and, with the help of the other Sages, returned the Triforce—as whole and shining as it had been when the Goddesses first created it—to its rightful place in the Sacred Realm.   
  
Her next order of business was to offer her gratitude to Link, the Hero of Time, who had risked so much—not the least being his life—to defend a land he could have easily forsaken. Link accepted the praise with grace and humility, unaware that his moment in the light was to be intentionally brief. There was the matter of time and swords to be dealt with, and of all the lives in Hyrule, only one had been abbreviated in order to fulfill a victorious destiny.   
  
Zelda, in her wise and patient voice, reminded Link that he had lost seven years of his life in order to be able to wield the Master Sword—the same sword which was now capable of affording everyone in the land of Hyrule a new future, untainted by the existence of Ganondorf.   
  
“Return the sword, and we all have the chance to live those seven years as they should have been, under a free and prosperous kingdom,” she explained. “If you choose not to, then we shall simply move ahead and begin rebuilding what Ganondorf has destroyed, and pray that the nightmares will fade in time . . .”  
  
Link had wanted to argue—felt that he _should_ argue; after all, even terrible events had their place in history, and many good things could arise from such painful lessons—but he was weary from his quest and ready to go home. Zelda seemed to sense his conflict, and she smiled at him kindly.  
  
“My dear Link,” she said, touching his dirty cheek with her gloved hand, “you of all people deserve a second chance. Please, return the sword, and then you will be free to return home. And this time there will be no war waiting for you—only peace. This I promise you.”   
  
Link, reluctant but obedient, heeded Zelda’s admonition and accepted her parting kiss upon his brow. Then he stood and planted the Master Sword into its pedestal.  
  
Seven years flashed backward in streaks of blue and white, memories destined to fade in the march of time unless the sword was drawn again. But Link, now a child with the fiery coals of adulthood rapidly cooling in his head, turned away from the sword and let the doors of the Temple of Time close behind him.   
  
He followed Navi on one last journey across Hyrule Field, heading toward Kokiri Forest. They said their goodbyes on the path that led into the dark hollow of trees, and Link sniffed back his tears until he had hiccups. Navi flew up, sent a burst of blue sparkles raining down onto the boy’s head, and was gone in a twinkle.  
  
Link walked back to his village, fairy-less and forlorn.  
  
His sadness was forgotten a little when Saria ran out to greet him, shouting joyfully at his return. Even Mido seemed glad to see him, though he teased Link about just how dumb a person had to be to get lost in his own forest. Link bit his lip and endured the ribbing—Zelda had said it might be dangerous to mention anything about the quest . . . Wait, who was Zelda again? Yes, the Princess of Hyrule. But the quest . . . Hadn’t it started in the Lost Wood? And hadn’t he gotten appropriately lost in there for a day or two?   
  
Well, it didn’t matter anymore. His friends were here in front of him, and that was much more important than trying to remember a fairy tale he might have read in some old Kokiri book.  
  
So Link pushed all of those confusing memories to the back of his mind, and there they withered, grew smaller, and eventually disappeared altogether.   
  
Within a year, all that remained were gauzy dreams and distant feelings that seemed to belong to somebody else. Very soon even those went away.

* * *

Link went on with his life in Kokiri Forest, perfectly ignorant of what he had gone through to save the future that had now become his present. He never learned that Saria had been vested with the divine authority of Sage of the Forest, for that had happened during his quest, and Saria had sworn an oath to Zelda to withhold those details in order to allow Link a chance at a new life, a clean start. It seemed he had, at least for now.   
  
Time marched on, writing new pages over the ugly ones and obliterating the dismal fate that was almost Hyrule’s future. And while the Water Temple at the bottom of Lake Hylia was cleansed of all traces of Ganondorf’s evil, the secret room at the end of the labyrinth of halls remained untouched, undisturbed, unmentioned. It was lost to time and memory, for all those who knew of its existence had been destroyed.  
  
. . . Or deceived, if even in the name of mercy.

* * *

As the peaceful, happy years continued to pass, Link became aware that he was not like the eternally childlike people whom he had known since his infancy. He began to get bigger. He first outgrew his soft brown boots, and eventually the rest of his clothes. He towered over the rest of the Kokiri in a crudely-sewn tunic made from several smaller outfits. His voice cracked and deepened, he got shaggy, and he started growing hair in strange places. He developed a musky scent that made him self-conscious to the point of reclusion. He was awkward and gangly and he didn’t really know what was happening to him or if it would ever stop. The Kokiri began to walk a wide path around the smelly giant in their midst.   
  
Everyone except Saria, that is. She knew a little bit about the Outside and the people who lived there, and she knew that this was the process all Outside children went through in order to become grown-ups. She was aware that she would eventually have to tell Link the truth about his origins, but this was something she desperately dreaded. It would be the beginning of the end, and a small piece of her heart clung selfishly to the boy—her brother, her best friend—whom she had known and cared for nearly fifteen years.   
  
A little bit longer, she prayed. Just let me be with him for a little bit longer.

* * *

Winter passed into spring in the lands of Hyrule. The snow melted and the sun grew warm again, and soon green grass covered the rolling hills of Hyrule Field. In Kokiri Forest, however, there are no seasons—only the mysterious, eternal twilight of a summer evening.   
  
It was becoming dangerous for Link now. He was growing foggy-headed and more forgetful with each passing day, falling under the spell of the forest. Saria scolded herself for keeping him as long as she had, and decided one morning to finally address the questions that Link so sorely needed answered.  
  
Taking her tall companion by the hand, Saria led him to the clearing where the Great Deku Tree had once lived, where the Seedling Deku was now happily growing. They sat together on flowering grass and Saria told Link the story of how he had first come to Kokiri Forest as a small baby held in the arms of his mother, a woman who had fled the war that claimed the life of her soldier husband during the dark years of civil unrest in Hyrule. She explained to an astonished—and somewhat relieved—Link that he was not a Kokiri, but a citizen of Hyrule. His mother had encountered the little people who dwelt in the forest and given Link to them, for she knew of the legend that surrounded their realm: those who went in never came out again. This was indeed true of adults, therefore Link’s mother was doomed the moment she chose the forest as her sanctuary. She was not thinking of her own life, but for the life of her child. In her last moment of lucidity, she passed her baby into the care of the Kokiri; then she swooned, her mind left her, and she died. Such was the fate of all adults who wandered into the forest.  
  
The Kokiri sheltered the infant Link and raised him as their own. It was little wonder why he never felt like he fit in, Link realized now. He was the Boy Without A Fairy, the Outsider, the stranger. Only Saria ever offered him friendship and care that could truly pass in the place of family.  
  
But now it seemed that that was all going to change. With tears in her eyes, Saria took Link’s large hands in her own small ones and told him that he could not stay forever, that he must soon leave and venture into the world beyond, where he belonged.  
  
“But I’ll still be able to come back and visit you, won’t I?” he asked.  
  
Saria shook her head slowly. “Once you leave the forest, you can never return. When you pass into the world of adults, you shall become one, and the ancient power that protects the Kokiri does not recognize friend from foe.”  
  
“So I . . .” Link felt dizzy again, and his heart seemed to have lodged in his throat. “I’ll never see you again.”  
  
Saria didn’t answer directly, but the way she looked down at her lap told Link all that he needed to know.  
  
“I see,” he said quietly. “I suppose that’s why I’ve been feeling so strange lately, isn’t it? I’m becoming an adult, and the forest is telling me I have to leave.”   
  
The little Kokiri girl nodded her head. “In its own way, yes. If you stay for much longer, you will begin to forget much more important things than names; how to talk, how to eat, how to move . . . and soon your heart will forget how to beat. You will die with your mind empty and your body a useless shell. And as terribly as I would miss you, I would not wish such a dreadful death upon so dear a friend.”  
  
There was a long silence while Link absorbed the gravity of his situation. Finally he said, “How much time do I have left?”  
  
“Not long. A few days, a week perhaps.” Saria’s face crumpled. “I’m so sorry, Link! I should have told you sooner. I shouldn’t have kept you he—”  
  
“No, hey, it’s alright,” Link hushed, moving close so that he could put his arm around her. He held Saria while she wept against his patchwork tunic, and lifted his eyes up toward the gold-outlined canopy of trees.  
  
It was beautiful in the forest today. Beams of warm sunlight glittered through the cool darkness of the shade. Delicate, beautiful insects danced in the shafts of light while unseen birds called to one another. In the distance was the quiet murmur of a nearby brook. The grass was soft and the air was fresh with the scent of leaves and flowers. This was the only home Link had ever known, and now it was evicting him forever.  
  
He leaned his head against Saria’s, blinking back his tears, and wondered why it felt as if his heart were breaking in half for the second time.

* * *

Three days later, he stood upon the Kokiri side of the old swinging bridge, a Deku walking stick in his hand, gazing at the path that led through the thick trees to the outside world. He shouldered the pack filled with all of his worldly possessions and a few rations of food, and willed himself to move forward. His feet, however, were suddenly as heavy as boulders and more deeply-rooted than the oldest tree in the forest.  
  
_What if there’s nothing out there?_ Link thought. _What if the whole world beyond the forest is gone? I’ll die if I come back, but I could die out there, too. If there_ are _people out there, who can I trust? Saria said that the Hylians kill each other, sometimes even children. My father died because somebody wanted to hurt him. Will somebody want to hurt_ me _?_  
  
He was never going to get out of Kokiri Forest thinking like this, he realized gloomily. Only a coward would stand here working himself into an anxious frenzy. He wasn’t a coward . . . at least he didn’t believe so, when it came down to it. But the line between caution and cowardice was a fine one; if only he had assurance that there would be something good waiting for him on the other side . . .  
  
“But I don’t,” he said. “I guess that’s where faith comes in.”  
  
“Faith is always a good torch to carry,” came a small voice, “especially when the path ahead of us seems dark.”  
  
Link turned to see Saria standing behind him, looking up with glistening green eyes. She had only recently stopped crying, he saw. Her elfin nose was pink and her cheeks were flushed. She forced a smile and came forward, taking her hands from behind her back and lifting them toward Link. In them was her small wooden ocarina.  
  
“I almost forgot this,” she said, sniffing. “Take it. It’s yours now.”  
  
There it was, his heart in his throat again. He shook his head. “No, I couldn’t. That ocarina has been in your family for generations. It’s the finest one in all the village.”  
  
“Well, it belongs to you now.” Saria placed it into Link’s big hand and pressed his fingers closed. “When you play it, think of me. Think of all the games we played and the songs we sang . . .” She trailed off and wiped her face on her sleeve.  
  
Link kneeled down and gathered her into his arms, and she almost disappeared in them. “I will never forget you, Saria,” he said, his voice cracking. “I promise I won’t.”  
  
He gave her a final squeeze and pulled back, pressing a gentle kiss onto her forehead. Then he stood and looked toward the bridge. Yes, he was ready now. He took one step. Then another. And another.  
  
In the middle of the bridge he paused and looked over his shoulder. Saria was watching him, hands clasped to her chest, nodding encouragingly despite the tears rolling down her cheeks.  
  
“Farewell, Saria,” said Link. “I’ll miss you.”  
  
_You will, but not for as long as I_ , she thought but didn’t say. She simply raised her hand and waved, and watched as he crossed the bridge and started onto the path. He disappeared into the shadowy trees and his footsteps faded out of earshot, replaced by the familiar sounds of the forest: hooting owls, creaking branches, humming insects.   
  
“Farewell,” Saria whispered, lowering her hand. “May you light the path wherever you go.”


	3. Outside

The outside world was not, as Link had feared, a desert wasteland, nor was it a violent anarchy overrun with murderous bandits and bloodthirsty wild animals. It was wide-open, green and bright—quite peaceful, in fact. Birds sang and happy puffs of clouds ambled slowly across the blue sky. There was a refreshing breeze, and while the unfiltered sunlight was a little harsh on his eyes, it felt good on his skin.  
  
Link took it all in, his heart soothed by the sight of the grassy knolls that stretched into the distance. “It’s so big,” he marveled.  
  
“Indeed, much bigger than your forest, young man,” a voice croaked from behind.  
  
Link started and spun around, raising his Deku stick over his shoulder and expecting to find someone—one of those savage Hylian warriors, or a passel of highway thieves—standing behind him. Nothing but the verge of the forest greeted his eyes.  
  
“Up here,” came the voice again, and Link raised his eyes to see an owl—a gigantic owl, the biggest he had ever seen—perched on one of the few remaining limbs of an old, dead tree. It was staring at him inquisitively, blinking its large yellow eyes.  
  
Link edged closer, wary of this strange bird who should not even be out during the day. “Did you just say something?” he asked incredulously.  
  
“I did indeed,” said the owl, ruffling its feathers. The two long tufts above its eyes made it look fierce and unfriendly, but its tone was amicable enough. “I am Kaepora Gaebora. And you must be one of the Kokiri . . .” Abruptly the talking Kaepora bird turned his entire head upside down and peered at Link from a new angle. “But that can’t be right. The Kokiri would never leave their sanctuary, and no one has ever come out of that forest alive. You must either be very lost or very powerful.”  
  
Link tried to find his voice. “I . . . I’m neither. My name is Link. I’m a Hylian. I’ve lived in Kokiri all my life. Well, until now.”  
  
Kaepora Gaebora turned his head upright and released a low, long hoot. “I see. You were brought to the forest as an infant, and the adult who delivered you never survived. Then you stayed in Kokiri until you grew up and its magic forced you out. Am I right?”  
  
It was a little unnerving having his entire life story unraveled in a matter of seconds; Link suddenly wanted to get away from this Kaepora Gaebora with his unnatural daytime hours and prying deductions.   
  
“You seem to know a lot about this country,” said Link. “Can you point me to the closest village?”  
  
The owl flicked his eyebrow tufts as if amused. “You must be in a hurry. Strange for a young man so new to this world to already have such a tight schedule.”  
  
This time Link made no attempt to hide his scowl. He turned and began to walk away—anywhere, just as long as it got him away from this nosy creature. He had only gotten a few paces before he heard the flapping of great wings.  
  
“Wait, boy! Link!” Kaepora called, lighting on a nearby tree. “I meant no offense. Knowledge is my business, and something in which I take great pride.” He opened one enormous wing and pointed south. “If you follow the edge of the forest, you will soon come to a road. That road leads to Lorring, one of the outlying towns of Hyrule Kingdom. You will be safe there.”  
  
Link narrowed his eyes. “Safe from what?”  
  
The owl pulled in his wing and smoothed his feathers. “Well, good luck, young Link, and welcome to Hyrule!” Without another word, the large bird took to the sky and soared off to the north.  
  
Link remained where he was for a few moments, wondering if all the birds in Hyrule talked, and if all of them were as strange as Kaepora Gaebora. He didn’t even realize how hard his heart was pounding until now—he placed a hand to his chest and heaved a sigh.  
  
“It’s alright,” he told himself. “It’ll get easier. So what if the first person you met on the Outside happened to be a . . . giant, lunatic buzzard. Lorring, yes, let’s go to Lorring. It’s safe there, after all.”  
  
So Link readjusted his knapsack and began to walk south, keeping the forest to his left. He made a conscious effort to slow down, determined to at least pretend he was brave and level-headed, not some small animal that was running from one hiding place to another. He wondered what the village of Lorring looked like, if it were large and crowded or small and humble, like Kokiri. He wondered if the other Hylians would look like him, if they all had the same noses or ears. Surely the older ones would be huge compared to the younger ones; after all, growth was what had driven Link out of Kokiri. Maybe he would meet a really old Hylian, a giant as tall as a tree. He wondered how small the baby Hylians were, if they were fairy-sized or perhaps even smaller. He wondered if they hatched from eggs, like birds. He wondered about a lot of things, and only after wondering did he realize how very little he knew about the world and his people.  
  
His people. The Hylians.   
  
_They may be my people_ , thought Link ruefully, _but they’ll never be my family. I am Link of Kokiri. My home is the forest, and it always will be._  
  
With this thought firmly chiseled in his mind, he continued his trek toward Lorring, and his first encounter with Hylian civilization.

* * *

Kaepora Gaebora sailed over hills and streams, toward the gray stone walls of Hyrule’s capital. He glided low over the drawbridge and the tight cluster of shops and houses, past the Temple of Time, and veered toward the white castle in the distance. He flapped his wings and slowed as he approached one of the narrow windows. With a flourish of brown feathers, he perched upon the sill and called, “Your Highness! Princess Zelda!”  
  
Footsteps sounded on the stone floor, and a young woman of perhaps fifteen years came hurrying into the room. She was dressed in shades of white and rose, and wore a delicate circlet of gold on her head. Though her face was young, her eyes held a serene, patient quality that seemed beyond her years. Zelda smiled in recognition at the old owl. “Sage Rauru! What brings you to Castle Hyrule today, Your Grace?”  
  
“Good news,” said Kaepora-Rauru, stepping off the window sill. His form shifted and shimmered, wings and feathers melting away. A moment later the Sage of Light stood before the princess, tucking his arms into the long sleeves of his robe. “I just came from the Edgewood; it appears that young master Link has finally made it to the outside.”  
  
Zelda clasped her hands together and pressed them against her lips. “Oh, Rauru. That’s such wonderful news! Is he well? How did he look? Was he surprised to meet you? Do you think he has any memory of the Quest?”  
  
“One thing at a time, Princess,” Rauru chuckled. “Yes, he looked well. His clothes could perhaps use some mending, but he is otherwise a handsome and healthy young man. He did not recognize me, and he seemed rather eager to get away, but I do believe his memories remain where they should be—locked safely within the Master Sword.”  
  
“That’s good. Very good. I’m so relieved to hear he is alive and well.” Zelda sighed. “Thank you for bringing me this message.”  
  
“My pleasure, Your Highness. I have sent him to Lorring; he should be able to begin to eke out a new life for himself there without too much trouble.”  
  
“You _will_ check in on him from time to time, won’t you?”  
  
“Certainly, my dear,” said Rauru. “In disguise, of course. We should have no need to get involved in his life unless something happens to the Lines. And as meticulous as we were during the Restoration, there ought to be nothing to worry about.” He smiled at Zelda, though most of it was hidden behind his thick white mustache. “Do not fret, Princess. Link will be fine.”  
  
“I know,” she said, gazing out the window toward the land to the south. “I only wish I could help him more.”

* * *

As it turned out, Link received more help than he thought he rightly deserved. The people of Lorring were a friendly and welcoming folk, and he inadvertently landed himself a job almost within the first hour of his arrival. It happened like this:   
  
As Link was gawking at the village, everything from the cobblestone streets to the glass windows in the shops and houses, a one-eyed merchant was trying to get a tremendous four-legged beast with a long face (it was a horse, but Link had no memory of them, naturally) hitched to a cart full of crates and sacks and various other cargo. Link was on the opposite side of the street when the animal reared, causing the front of the cart to spring up and the back to crash down, essentially turning it into a two-wheeled catapult. The four clay pots in the front of the cart went sailing into the air at the same time everything else slid to the back, toward the unhinged backboard.  
  
Something automatic took over Link in that moment; in his mind he was still standing in the street but his body had taken a running start and planted the Deku stick into the cobblestones, pole-vaulting over two pedestrians. He landed at the rear of the cart and kicked the backboard shut with one foot, at the same time whirling his stick above his head and catching the pots by their handles as they fell.   
  
Then he blinked and gave his head a shake, as if awakening from a trance. A few of the more impressed bystanders were laughing and applauding—maybe they thought he was another of those fantastic street performers that came through from time to time. Link stared at the merchant, whose one eye was opened as wide as it would go. “Where did you learn to do _that_?” he asked.  
  
All Link could do was shake his head and shrug, still looking dazed.  
  
The merchant strode over for a closer look at the newcomer. He moved with a slight limp. “My name’s Bazlo Bartlin,” he said.  
  
“I, I’m Link . . . of Kokiri.”  
  
“Well, Link of Kokery”—Bazlo clapped a hand on his lopsided cart—“what do you know about logistics?”

* * *

Link didn’t know the first thing about logistics, but Bazlo Bartlin didn’t seem to mind or care. He was just glad to have found a replacement for his last assistant.   
  
“Decided he wanted to see more of the world, so he went to work on a trade ship down in Antios,” said Bazlo over a dinner of stewed cucco later at The Broken Hearth Inn (his treat, of course). “You’d think I wouldn’t have such a problem finding able-bodied help, but most fellows don’t like the thought of spending ninety percent of the time on the road and away from their families . . . What about yours? Do they live here in Lorring?”  
  
Link, who was enthusiastically devouring his stew, took a moment to set down his spoon. “I don’t have a family,” he said in a quiet voice. “I mean, I _did_ , but I had to leave them. It . . . wasn’t safe to live with them anymore. And my parents died when I was just a baby, so . . .”  
  
Bazlo nodded sympathetically. “I see. Are you staying with relatives now?”  
  
Link shook his head. “I’m on my own.”  
  
Bazlo scratched a hand through his graying hair, looking more than a little worried. “Look, don’t take this the wrong way—I mean, you seem pretty capable of taking care of yourself from what I saw in the square earlier—but you’re awfully young to be fending for yourself. Just how old are you?”  
  
“I . . . I don’t really know,” Link said, shrugging one shoulder. “Fifteen, sixteen maybe.”  
  
Bazlo stared at Link strangely for a moment, his forgotten stew growing cool on the table in front of him. “You’re completely new to this world, aren’t you? Wait, don’t answer that. I know you are, and that’s none of my business. I just thank the Goddesses you found me instead of a bunch of cutthroat criminals—”  
  
“Or murderous bandits?”  
  
“Er . . . yes, I suppose.”  
  
Link slapped the table. “I _knew_ there had to be some out here.”  
  
“No, no, hey, listen, you won’t have to worry about any of those rotten characters if you’re working for me. I know I look like some old codger with a gimp leg and a missing eye, but I used to be a soldier of Hyrule, and I can still unzip a man’s guts if it’s necessar—”  
  
“That’s horrible!” Link cried, drawing the attention of several nearby diners. “ _Unzipping_ people? Is that what soldiers _do_?”  
  
“No,” said Bazlo in a calmer voice. “That’s what war does. And some things stick with you no matter how badly you want to forget them.”  
  
Link didn’t want or meant to say this—it just came out. “My father was a soldier. He was killed in the Hyrulean Civil War. He probably ‘unzipped’ people, too. If he hadn’t died, I . . . ” _I wouldn’t be where I am now._ He didn’t speak the last part, but Bazlo heard it all the same.  
  
“Link,” he said, leaning in, “your father did what he was ordered to do. And to that end, he was a loyal, honorable soldier. I don’t know what was in his heart, but . . . if it was anything like his son’s, I’m inclined to think he was a good man.”  
  
This was perhaps the first time Link had ever heard the word “son” spoken in reference to himself. He had no memories of his parents; to him they might as well have never existed. He had never been anybody’s son, nor would he ever. But after hearing Bazlo’s epitaph, and the man’s kind, patient tone, he suddenly felt like crying. His eyes watered and his face flushed, but he scrubbed the tears away before they could roll down his cheeks. Somehow it felt shameful to cry in front of his boss, in front of a _soldier_.  
  
Bazlo reached into his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief, which he passed to Link. “Listen,” he said, “why don’t you take my room for tonight. I can sleep in the common area downstairs, it’s no trouble.”  
  
Link sniffed, rubbing his nose with the handkerchief. “Thanks, but you don’t have to do that.”   
  
“Right, right. I’ll just kick a homeless orphan out into the cold and let him find a tree sleep in.”  
  
“You ever tried it? It’s pretty peaceful.”  
  
After a strange look, Bazlo shook his head and grinned. “Something tells me you’re going to be a lot more interesting than my previous assistant.”  
  
Link sat in his chair, smiled politely, and didn’t say a word.

* * *

So that was how Link became officially employed by Bazbar Incorporated, which was the name of Bazlo Bartlin’s trade business. The ex-soldier was contracted by various shops and entities all over Hyrule to distribute the dry goods that were shipped to Port Antios: textiles, tools, livestock feed, weaponry, medicines, tack, books, leather goods, spices from places Link couldn’t even pronounce, and anything else that Bazlo’s clients needed.  
  
“It’s a good way to see the country and meet new people, if you’re interested in that sort of thing,” he told Link when they set out on their first voyage. “Hyrule is a kingdom of wonder . . . I’m glad that your generation will grow up with no memory of the wars that nearly tore it apart.”  
  
This appeared to be true, for every place they traveled was prospering and at peace. Bazlo had made many friends in his post-war years, and he was proud to introduce his new assistant to them. Link began to think that his boss should have been an ambassador instead of a soldier, because Bazlo used every opportunity on the road to tell Link about the cultures and languages of the people of Hyrule.  
  
“It’s just good business protocol,” he explained one chilly evening in early autumn. “The Zaligren see merchants from all over the place, but they _remember_ the ones who know how to speak a few words of their language, even if it’s only ‘thank you’. That’s always the first thing I learn to say.”  
  
Link sat on the bench of Bazlo’s wagon and listened, his hands wrapped around his first mug of spiced cider. The crudely-sewn green tunic he had left home wearing now functioned as a scarf, and his employer had been kind enough to give him a set of clothes from his own wardrobe. They had needed some hemming and other minor adjustments, but it was a vast improvement over his beloved—if ragged—Kokiri outfit.  
  
“Have any people ever given you trouble?” Link asked. “Like the Gerudos. Everyone says they’re thieves.”  
  
Bazlo shrugged. “Some of them are. Most of them aren’t. They’re like us, made up of good and bad and not quite good, but not very bad. I try to get along with people these days. Too much of my life was spent doing the opposite.”  
  
“Have you ever had to fight off marauders or bandits?”  
  
“Once or twice. Not bad for almost twenty years of business. Speaking of which, how well can you handle a weapon?”  
  
Link coughed a little into his cider. “I, um . . . I’m pretty good with a slingshot.”  
  
An awkward pause followed, then Bazlo cleared his throat and snapped the reins. “Well, at least that’s a start. I’m not advocating warfare for children, but if you were my son you’d be carrying your own crossbow by now. Every man ought to know how to defend himself.”  
  
Link perked up. “Are you going to teach me?”  
  
“Only if you want. And you have to promise me you won’t grow up and become a soldier.”  
  
Link rolled his eyes. “Well, I can’t help the growing up part, but I can do everything else, sure.”  
  
Bazlo reached over and ruffled his passenger’s blond hair. “Smartass.”

* * *

True to his word, Bazlo took Link under his wing and began to train him in the art of self-defense, practicing whenever they had time to spare. Bazlo was old, but he was tough and had a lifetime of experience to draw on, and he didn’t hold back. Many mornings Link woke up with bruises and aches, but it felt good, and somehow it made him happy. He had a natural propensity for the sword, but Bazlo tried not to encourage it more than he had to. Instead he showed Link how to dodge and block, tumble, take a punch, fight with a shield, and disarm an enemy without killing him. Most of his teaching was strictly hand-to-hand, but Link always relished the sword practice.  
  
These were just a few of the skills that Link learned while working for Bazlo Bartlin, whether actively taught by his employer or picked up from observation. Others included horsemanship, knot-tying, chivalry, dressing wild game, fire-building, how to tell time and find direction with the sun, how to catch fish without a pole, the many uses of a good hat, how to forecast the weather, how to address royalty, and the importance of being punctual. The latter was something Link struggled with hilariously. He had never been a morning person, and with the intense physical labor of his job making demands on a body that was blazing through adolescence, he learned to take naps wherever and whenever possible. This aggravated Bazlo, whose internal clockwork still ran on military time, but he was ultimately forced to accept the napping as an inalienable part of Link’s character. After all, it had been his bright idea to hire a teenager in the first place.  
  
In many respects, Bazlo inadvertently found himself playing the role of parent to his young assistant, and Link, for his fifteen or so years, was rather naïve about the world. Most of his questions Bazlo had no problem answering—he was glad to dispense his wisdom to the next generation. Others questions he viewed with abject horror. Like the time when Link asked, out of the blue, “What kind of nests do women keep their eggs in?”  
  
After regaining his breath from choking on his tea, Bazlo put his face in his hands for a few moments, then took Link aside and told him the same short, unlovely story that his father had told him, and his father before him, all the way back to the founding of Hyrule. Link took it well, although it was some time before he could comfortably speak to women again.   
  
Bazbar Inc did well over the following two years, thanks to a healthy relationship between its proprietor and single employee. Link got broader and stronger, thanks to the manual labor that he hated and the training that he loved. He outgrew his clothes again and had to buy a new set—with guidance from Bazlo, who forbade the wearing of tights and short tunics, especially in combination.   
  
“We’re men, not little girls,” he grunted, sending Link back into the dressing room. “When you come out, I want to see some pants and at least a knee-length jerkin. Brown or green, those are your only color options.”  
  
Link mouthed off about doing what he wanted with his own money and Bazlo fired back something about misrepresenting the company and what would our clients think, we’re not a circus and you’re not a jester, and so on and so forth until Link finally gave up and bought pants and a green tunic.   
  
They were an unusual team, the man who never had a child and the child who never had a father, but they got along well enough to call each other friends at the end of each business day. After all, Link had Bazlo to thank for showing him the land of Hyrule and introducing him to its people, a few of whom Link now considered his friends—like the fun-loving redheaded girl at Lon Lon Ranch (she was always humming a tune Link just _knew_ he’d heard before), and the Gerudo children who begged him to play his ocarina whenever he and Bazlo were visiting the Valley. Link had become quite familiar with all the races and cultures of Hyrule . . . except for one.   
  
It happened at Kakariko Village one afternoon, while they were making a delivery of cucco feed and some replacement gears for the windmill. Link had unhitched Flash and Thunder, the horses, and was bringing them over to the watering trough beside the well. Someone was already there, a young man roughly his own age, but strangely dressed in dark shades of blue and purple. As Link came closer, he saw that the stranger had blond hair, but that wasn’t unusual—what _was_ unusual were his eyes. They were the color of polished ruby, as red as fresh blood or a ripe apple.   
  
The stranger must have known he was being stared at; he looked up and gave a cool, polite smile, acknowledging Link’s presence with a sort of bored indifference. Then his eyes abruptly widened, almost as if in recognition, and his smile faded. He drew a breath inward and turned away, pulling at the reins of his horse.  
  
“Hey, wait, don’t I know you?” Link asked.  
  
“I doubt it.”  
  
“But I’ve seen you before. Your eyes . . .”  
  
“All of my people have red eyes. You must be confusing me with another Sheikah.”  
  
Link frowned and stepped around the side of the trough, trying to see the stranger’s face. “Shee-kahs? Is that what you are? I’ve never heard of them.”  
  
“There aren’t many of us left.”  
  
Link’s gaze drifted to the young man’s horse, in particular the tooling on the saddle. “Do you work in the palace? I see the Royal Crest on your fenders.”  
  
At this the Sheikah smiled and finally turned to face Link. He was very handsome, but there was a frigid quality to his good looks. “You see pretty well without Navi,” he said. “And you’ve even managed to learn something about horses. Not bad for a little orphan from Kokiri.”  
  
The bottom of Link’s heart dropped out. “How . . . h-how did . . .”  
  
“ _Ilya! Karray kani gero, imashku!_ ” A harsh female voice rang out from one of the buildings.  
  
The Sheikah’s smile turned into a grimace. “I’m afraid I must go. Take care of yourself, Link.”  
  
He was on his horse and gone before Link could think anything else besides  
  
_But I never told him my name._

* * *

Bazlo heard all about the encounter as they were leaving Kakariko, and he instantly became uneasy.  
  
“Was there a red emblem on his clothes? Looked like a weeping eye with three triangles above it?”  
  
“Yes, exactly!” cried Link. “Said he was a Sheeker?”  
  
“Sheikah. They’re the personal bodyguards of the royal family, and possibly the deadliest assassins ever put on this earth.” Bazlo meditated a few moments while Link’s jaw came unhinged. “I hope you were polite. The last thing you want is one of those guys mad at you.”  
  
“That. But. But he knew my name. He knew that I came from _Kokiri_! Baz, _he knew I was an orphan_.”  
  
“I know, pretty spooky. That’s your typical Sheikah. They can see things that we mortals can’t. They move like shadows, vanishing and reappearing. Nobody knows where they came from or why they serve the royal family. Their past is a blank. Everything about them is a mystery.”  
  
“And that doesn’t intrigue you at all?”  
  
“Of course it does, but I’ve got enough sense to know when some things are best left alone. And trust me, those people _want_ to be left alone.”  
  
“But—” Link could barely contain himself. “But this is so _interesting_! Why didn’t you ever _tell_ me about them?”  
  
Bazlo shook his head. “Honestly, I forgot. Call it old age—out of sight, out of mind. I haven’t seen a Sheikah in thirty years or more. That man you saw today, he’s probably as old as I am.”  
  
“What? No, no way. He couldn’t have been more than twenty.”  
  
“Again: spooky. Are you noticing a pattern yet?”  
  
Link fell silent, his mind bursting with more questions than his mouth could keep up with. Bazlo seemed to be reading his thoughts, because Link was already making plans to return to Kakariko before the next port call when Bazlo said flatly, “Let it go. I mean it, Link. Those people are highly-trained killing machines. You go poking around in their territory and you’re liable to end up dead or missing.”  
  
“That one didn’t seem like he wanted to kill me.”  
  
“He probably didn’t . . . for today. Trust me, Link, your life will be a lot easier and a lot longer if you just put this whole incident behind you.”  
  
Link slumped back on the bench and scowled. He wasn’t going to let Bazlo Bartlin’s paranoia deter him, and he certainly wasn’t going to forget what had happened today. He _had_ seen that Sheikah before, maybe in a dream or a distant memory, and the Sheikah obviously knew him. There was something buried here, something huge and important.  
  
Something, Link felt, that went straight to his soul.


	4. Hearts

Link never knew the date of his birth, but every year around the same time Bazlo gave him a gift, usually something functional like a new belt or some weather-proof socks. Employee Appreciation Day he called it, but Link knew better. It always occurred on the anniversary of his coming to the Outside, which was incidentally the same day he had met Bazlo. Today marked the third anniversary, and it was going to be a little more special this year. Link had no idea why, at least until he saw the grim look on Bazlo’s face that evening at The Broken Hearth.  
  
“I think you’re old enough to carry one of these now,” he said, putting a small package on the table. It was wrapped in brown paper. Link gave Bazlo a wondering look before taking the gift and tearing it open.  
  
“A knife, wow, finally!” he exclaimed, removing the small dagger from its leather holster and holding it up admiringly.  
  
“You wear it at the small of your back, on the inside of your belt. Nice and discreet. Nobody will know it’s there except you.”  
  
“Thanks, Baz. This is . . . this is really great.”  
  
“Hopefully you won’t need to use it—I pray you won’t, anyway—but if you need to cut yourself free from something or if you have a close encounter with some scalawags, this will give you an advantage. Remember: eyes, neck, and groin. If it’s a life or death situation, go for the arteries—you know where those are. Then keep your defenses up, wait for your enemy to bleed out.”  
  
Link put down his gift. “Why the gory wisdom all of a sudden? Is everything alright? You look troubled.”  
  
“That’s one way of putting it,” Bazlo sighed. “A letter arrived from my brother at the post here in Lorring last month. We were still working the west leg of our route, as you know. I didn’t receive it until a few days ago.”  
  
“I didn’t know you had a brother.”  
  
Bazlo pulled a crumpled envelope from the inner pocket of his vest and placed it on the table. “We haven’t spoken since our mother died. I was still an active soldier at the time. Berrol blamed me for not being at home to help take care of her, and when she died . . . well, it killed any brotherly love that wasn’t already dead.” Bazlo smiled thinly. “Now it seems that Berrol has the same kind of growth in his abdomen that took Mother. He wrote to say that he wants to see me before he goes . . . and to be there for his wife, and his two boys, to make sure they’re taken care of when he’s gone.”  
  
Link picked up the envelope. “This came from Fareign. That’s on the other side of the Zudem Sea!”  
  
“Still too close for Berrol’s liking.”  
  
Link was quiet for a moment. When he finally spoke, his voice sounded terribly young and vulnerable. “So you’re going away. How long? When will you be back?”  
  
“I don’t know.”  
  
“But what about the business? Are you just going to leave it?”  
  
“I have no choice,” said Bazlo, threading his fingers together. “Family is more important, estranged or not. This will probably be my last chance to set things right.”  
  
“But what about _me_?” Link cried. “What am I going to do?”  
  
“You’re going to do fine, that’s what. Remember the first time we sat at this table and talked? You were just a skinny kid straight outta the woods, dressed in that mangled green atrocity you called a tunic.” He chuckled at the memory. “Now look at you. You’re only a little bit taller than you were then, but you’re a hell of a lot stronger—and wiser. You know Hyrule. You know its people. You’ve got the skills and smarts to make it on your own now, to follow your own path.”  
  
Link’s face was a picture of betrayal. “You were planning this all along, weren’t you? Teach me everything you know and then just _abandon_ me—”  
  
“Not abandon. Enable. What greater reward could a father have than to see his son stand on his own?”  
  
Link tossed the envelope toward Bazlo. “But you’re not my father.”  
  
“I know. I didn’t realize we’d have so little time together, otherwise I’d . . .” Another weary sigh. “I should have tried harder, regardless. But it is what it is. I’m sorry if I’ve wounded you in any way, Link. It wasn’t intentional.”  
  
This was beginning to sound horribly familiar; the forced leaving, the grief, the brevity of time. Barely three years had passed since Link last had his heart ripped out, and the now whole ugly cycle was completing itself again. He was at once furious and terribly, utterly depressed—not at Bazlo, but at the circumstances that were pulling apart their nice little arrangement. Link understood the man wanting to go; if Saria were sick and dying, he’d be charging back to Kokiri as fast as his legs would carry him (if going into the forest weren’t a death wish, of course). But getting on a ship and sailing to Fareign was only a little less treacherous, perhaps. People died at sea all the time.  
  
But Bazlo was right. Family is more important. Family is worth the risk, especially if they’re all you’ve got.  
  
So Link, as evenly as his voice would allow, asked Bazlo when he was planning to leave.  
  
“In a couple of weeks. That should be enough time for me to get everything in order.”  
  
_A couple of weeks_ , thought Link. _That should be enough time for me to get my mind right._ He pulled himself together and nodded. “Alright. What can I do to help?”  
  
Bazlo smiled. He may not have ever been a father, but he sure looked like one then.

* * *

A couple of weeks, as it turned out, wasn’t nearly enough time for Link to get his mind right, he later discovered. Even if he’d had a year to get used to the idea, it still would have been difficult to stand on the dock at Antios and face Bazlo Bartlin for what might be the last time—what surely and in all likelihood _was_ the last time. He wondered if Bazlo felt the same.  
  
The one-eyed ex-merchant gave final pats to Flash and Thunder, said his farewells to them, then reached out and grasped Link’s hand. He was smiling, but his voice was rough when he spoke. “It’s been a privilege working with you.”  
  
Link had no words to say. Even if his shambling mind had been capable of putting together a sentence or two, his throat was too tight to allow the words to come out. So he stood there, trying to be a man, and nodded and shook Bazlo’s hand with a stony, rigid face and tried not to think about Kokiri, because if he thought about Kokiri right now he was going to lose it in front of his boss and the captain of the good ship _Stalworth_ and the whole town of Antios.  
  
Then Bazlo leaned forward and clapped his arm around Link’s shoulder, squeezed him hard enough to bring the tears out of his eyes, and said, “Remember: no soldiering.”  
  
Link laughed frailly and returned the embrace. “No soldiering.”  
  
They parted, Bazlo shouldered his knapsack, turned, and walked up the gangplank.  
  
Link stood on the pier and waved to the _Stalworth_ as she raised sail and glided slowly from the bay. Then he turned, pressed his fist to his lips, and made a strangled sound deep in his throat. Beside him, Flash nickered and snorted into his hair. Link rubbed the old gelding’s nose, grateful at least for the equine company.  
  
“It’s alright,” he murmured. “We’ll be alright. Come on, let’s get back to Lorring. I owe you both some carrots.”

* * *

Despite the suddenness of the circumstances, Bazlo had made sure that those he was leaving behind were taken care of. Link had refused to accept any of the money made from the liquidation of Bazbar Incorporated, but Bazlo had persisted in at least giving him a quarter of the profit. Severance pay, he joked. Link finally accepted it—not a fortune, but enough that would see him through until he could find another job.  
  
Flash and Thunder were to go to Lon Lon Ranch, where Bazlo’s good friend Talon had agreed to take in the retired duo and let them live out the rest of their days doing light farm work and getting spoiled rotten by his daughter Malon. Link himself delivered the horses a few days after Bazlo’s departure, and Talon insisted that he stay at the ranch for a while. Summer was nearly at its zenith and an extra pair of hands would be much appreciated when it came time to cut and rake the hay. So Link agreed, though what he really wanted was to be left alone to work out his feelings and come to terms with this gut-wrenching cycle of abandonment.  
  
Malon, however, was far too excited to give him a moment’s peace. In hindsight, she was perhaps the sole reason Link was never buried under the black sludge of depression. Malon was the antithesis of solemnity, a high-energy, horse-crazed daredevil whose idea of an exciting time was seeing how many bottles she could grab off the ground—with her bare hands, leaning almost completely out of the saddle—while on the back of a galloping, green-broke stallion. There was insanity in her blood, but there was also plenty of courage and genius. Link had watched her break a colt in less than a day, and she could throw a rope around anything that moved.   
  
Bazlo may have taught Link how to ride a horse, but Malon taught him how to master one. When work was finished for the day, she was usually dragging him over to the grass field behind the ranch to challenge him in a friendly game of one-on-one polo—or archery, or hurdles, or bareback racing. She beat him at everything they did, but once in a while Link came close enough to make her have to work to keep her perfect record.  
  
It wasn’t Malon doing all the teaching, though; Link showed her how to play cards, how to carve a whistle (his mistake—the tweeting drove him crazy for about three days), and how to say “thank you” in six languages.  
  
“I envy you,” she said wistfully one evening, sitting up in the hayloft with Link and watching the sun go down. “You’ve seen so much of the kingdom, traveled to deserts and forests and mountains . . .”  
  
Link didn’t look up from the small block of linden he was carving. “There’s a word for that, Mal, and it’s called ‘homeless’.”  
  
She guffawed. Even though Link wasn’t trying to be funny, he had to smile at her response.  
  
“No, that’s traveling, goofus!” she cried. “Not homeless!”  
  
“Then explain to me the difference between traveling and wandering.”  
  
Malon pursed her lips pensively. “Well, when you travel, you’ve got a destination in mind. Someplace you wanna go, things you wanna see. Wandering is, heck, what it sounds like. Just wandering around without a plan and it doesn’t really matter where you end up.”  
  
“Good enough. So what happens when a traveler is done traveling?”  
  
“I guess . . . huh, I guess he goes home.”  
  
“Egg- _zactly_.”  
  
“Wait, wait, waitwaitwait,” Malon rolled off of her stomach and sat up. Bits of hay clung to her dress. “I get what you’re tryin to say, but not everyone who wanders is homeless. Like gypsies, they’re perfectly content to wander. If some fella gets bored, he may just decide to start wandering around to see the country. Old people do that all the time.”  
  
“That’s sight-seeing, not wandering. When you wander—when you’re homeless—it’s a lot like being lost.”  
  
Malon counted off on her fingers: “Alright, so we’ve got traveling, wandering, sight-seeing, homeless, and lost. What else should we add to the list?”  
  
“Maybe count homeless and lost as one.”  
  
“You can be homeless without being lost.”  
  
“You can be homeless _and_ still be lost.”  
  
Malon let out a frustrated squawk and threw her hands in the air.  
  
Link smiled. “I only aggravate you because I like you.”  
  
She responded by drilling a knuckle into Link’s side, making him laugh and recoil. “Hey! Don’t! I’ve got a knife here! You want me to fillet my finger?”  
  
“Hm, fillet o’ finger, sure sounds tasty.”  
  
“You’re a pretty sick girl, Malon.”  
  
“I’m pretty when I’m healthy, too,” she grinned, fanning her face and batting her eyes.  
  
Link shook his head and chuckled.  
  
“But really,” she said, scooting closer and lowering her voice, “all joking aside, I understand why this is so important to you. Home _is_ important. I wouldn’t trade mine for anything—or my family, for that matter. I know how much you liked Mr Bazlo, and I know it’s been real tough for you, but it’ll get better. You’ll see.” She grinned and bumped his thigh with her fist.  
  
“You seem pretty sure about that.”  
  
“Of course I’m sure. There’s something special about you, Link. I knew it the moment I first saw you. I felt this instant connection—like I already knew you, or you were somebody really important. A prince or a living legend or something. It’s as if . . .”  
  
While Malon grasped for words, Link felt a chill creeping up his back, making every hair stand on end.  
  
“It’s like you’ve got this great big adventure hanging around you, just waiting to happen, but you don’t see it yet because you’re not in the right place right now . . . oh, I don’t know. Am I making any sense? I feel pretty stupid.”  
  
Link gave her a smile. “You’re pretty when you’re smart, too.”  
  
“Har har, it’s funnier when I do it . . . What’s that you’re carving? An apple?”  
  
“No, it’s a piece of wood. Can’t you tell the difference?”  
  
This time Malon balled up her fist and punched him in the arm. It was worth the bruise.  
  
“Alright,” Link laughed, “maybe you can tell me this: what is the difference between a house and a home?”  
  
Malon sighed and shrugged. “A house is a house. It’s made of floors and ceilings and walls . . .” She trailed off, suddenly becoming intrigued. “A house is a structure, the outside. A home is inside, what you put inside a house . . . where family and friends are . . .”  
  
“Getting close.”  
  
“Alright, so home is a feeling. A house is a thing. A home is . . . home . . .”  
  
Link slipped his hand under the collar of his tunic, made a fist, and popped it up and down over his chest a few times.  
  
Malon’s face suddenly shone like the sun. “Home is where the heart is!” she crowed.  
  
“And the lucky lady wins a wooden heart,” said Link, passing her the heart-shaped carving he had been finishing. It was a simple thing, nothing fancy or particularly ornate, but he’d taken the time to etch a few flourishes and swirls on it and smooth the sharp angles. “You can stain it or paint it, leave it as it is, whatever you want. Just don’t set it on fire or anything.” He winked.  
  
Malon cupped her hands around her gift as if it were solid gold, not a humble little wood carving. “Oh, Link,” she beamed. “Thank you.”  
  
He hadn’t been expecting the kiss on the cheek, but it stood to reason that if you gave a girl something she really liked, you’d better be prepared for the gushy, mushy consequences. It wasn’t all that bad, really.  
  
In fact, it was a pretty nice way to end the day.

* * *

The day was ending at Castle Hyrule, too. Housekeepers finished the last of their duties, cooks and kitchen staff stacked dishes in their cupboards, fresh linens were put out for tomorrow, and the night shift came in to relieve the current standing guard. This was the clockwork of life in a castle: pleasant routine and few (if any) interruptions in the day-to-day schedule of activities. It was a way of life that Princess Zelda had known for eighteen years, and as the stars showed their familiar faces one by one, she felt increasingly thankful for this structured, predictable, peaceful existence. Dark o’clock and all is well. No broken cogs, no loose springs, only the perpetual rhythm of tick-tock, tick-tock.   
  
Zelda wondered if she were strange for being so fastidious, if her people thought she was aloof and finicky. She hadn’t always been this way, dreading the unforeseen, obsessed with keeping a tight rein on a kingdom she felt was constantly teetering on the brink of chaos and disorder. When she was a young girl, before her father King Zurden had died, she had enjoyed being spontaneous and adventurous. She loved surprises, before surprises became a thing to be dreaded. She had been a dreamer, a girl who liked books about fantastic creatures and could never seem to keep her shoes clean. She was going to be a queen who slayed giants, tamed dragons, led armies to victory, and danced with fairies in moonlit grottos.  
  
Some of her wishes had come true, though not in the way she had imagined; she _had_ helped slay a terrible beast bent on the destruction of Hyrule, but that was in another life, on a different path in time. Though there had been moments of levity and love on that path, it remained a wholly awful experience, full of death and nightmares, and she wouldn’t endure it again unless there were no other way. She had been forced into hiding for the sake of her kingdom, had traded bodies with a Sheikah boy Impa had enlisted for the task, and basically lain in a helpless slumber while her mind crept around Hyrule like a cowardly thief. There was no real honor in the part she had played, though she was extremely grateful for the second chance Link had afforded the world. She hoped she was using her time wisely, but sometimes she felt as useless as one of the swooning princesses in the stories she’d read as a child; pretty and virtuous, but otherwise devoid of any meaningful qualities.  
  
Zelda’s real sense of accomplishment stemmed from her duties as a Sage and her ability to use magic, both of which had been taught to her almost since her infancy. Uncle Mortemus—not really her uncle, but the man who had been Chief Practician of Magic in the castle since her father was a young king—had shown her how develop her maegus, while Rauru instructed her on the responsibilities of sagehood and trained her to build her powers by drawing from each of the six other elements for which she was responsible. She was proud of her abilities, and justifiably so. Magic was one of the few things for which she had an undeniable talent. Her lyre-playing, on the other hand, had gotten stuck somewhere on the beginner’s level, and it had been years since she’d read a book about anything other than politics or economy. The fiercest monster she had slain in this boring, beautiful existence was a spider that had crawled across her writing desk one night. Royal life was much less glamorous than how she’d imagined it when she was eight years old.  
  
But she couldn’t complain. She knew what the anarchy of an evil reign looked like, and she didn’t care to see it again. If all she ever did for the rest of her life was keep the Triforce safe and in one piece, she’d be happy . . . Well, she could learn to be content. She doubted if she would ever truly be happy again, at least until the Lines had been matched and closed. Then she would finally be able to contact Link, perhaps ask for a special delivery to be made to the castle. Rauru had said he was still working for that merchant out of Lorring, and appeared to be getting along quite well. That had been a few months ago. Zelda wondered if Link was happy.  
  
_At least one of us should be_ , she thought, sitting at the long table in her father’s study with a paper copy of the Quest Line unfolded in front of her. There was a larger one in the council chamber, where Mortemus and the Sages regularly met to compare notes and make certain that time was mending itself properly.  
  
It was a nerve-wracking business, poring over records of events that Zelda and the other six Sages had been required to keep ever since Link had pulled the Master Sword from its pedestal. Rauru had known from the start that there would be problems; the boy had been too young to wield the sword, for one thing, and Rauru wasn’t even sure that Hyrule would still be around after the seven years required for Link to reach an appropriate age had passed. It was a terrible risk, but a necessary one. In the end, Ganondorf was defeated and the clocks turned back seven years, and now everyone involved in the quest—except for Link, of course—was faced with the arduous, painstaking responsibility of making sure that every trace of Ganondorf’s evil was expunged from history. That meant carefully charting the paths of the stars and the moon, documenting tides and sunrises and verifying that all natural, predictable phenomena trued up with the events of the Hero’s quest. Only this would ensure that time was passing normally.  
  
Zelda preferred to think of it in terms of sewing: a few inches of thread holding together a seam had rotted and needed to be replaced. The bad threads were removed, the good ends tied off, and the gaping hole was slowly being re-sewn. But this was delicate fabric, indeed; each stitch had to go through the same hole made by the original needle, otherwise the fabric would bunch and the seam would never align properly. This was a quaint way of describing the end of the world and everything in it. Only when the end of the gap was reached—Ganon’s final defeat and the returning of the Master Sword to its pedestal—could the Sages truly breathe a sigh of relief.  
  
Zelda roused herself from her reverie and looked down at her open journal. It was covered with doodles (not very good ones) of stitches and clocks and a face that might have been Link’s, if Link looked more like an assortment of clumsy lines and childish circles.  
  
She sighed and placed her quill in its stand. It had grown late, and tomorrow would be here early—six o’clock, the same as always. She stood and folded the Quest Line into a small square, tucking it between the pages of her journal.  
  
If she hadn’t raised her head to look at the clock, she might have been able to sleep that night. She might not have noticed anything wrong until the following day, or whenever she next decided to use her father’s study instead of her own. But she was curious what time it was, and glanced up at the large silver timepiece ticking away on the mantle. It read 9:41. It was also spattered with red.  
  
“What on earth . . .” Zelda murmured, starting forward slowly. Another splotch fell onto the clock’s housing, causing a red rill to trickle down its glass face.  
  
Horror beat in Zelda’s heart as she raised her eyes to the huge painting which hung above the fireplace. It was a portrait of her and her father. He was sitting in a chair and holding her on his knee—he a bearded, masculine figure, she a smiling toddler with golden hair and blue eyes. Except the eyes weren’t there anymore, nor were her father’s. Black holes gaped in their smooth, linseed oil faces, as if their eyes had been torn out by the claws of a ferocious beast. Ragged shreds of eyelid and cheek wept rivulets of blood— _real_ blood—that oozed out of the canvas and landed with fat, syrupy smacks onto the mantle.  
  
Greater than the fear at the sight of this monstrosity was Zelda’s realization that she was alone, it was night, and whatever evil had done this might still be in the room with her. She reached out for a chair, pawing vainly at the air, unable to tear her eyes away from the trickling, gory spring. Her fingertips brushed wood at the exact moment her knees buckled, and the sudden wave of vertigo kicked her reflexes into action. She sprawled against the chair and shut her eyes tightly.  
  
_It wasn’t there. You’re very tired. Your mind is playing tricks on you. Somebody is making a horrible joke. It wasn’t there. It’s very late. You’re daydreaming._  
  
Her mind kept firing off explanation after explanation, trying to convince her that what she had seen could not possibly be real, but the steady _pat, pat, pat_ of blood was more persuasive.  
  
Summoning her courage, Zelda took a deep breath and stood straight. She deliberately avoided looking at the painting as she strode across the room, one foot in front of the other, biting her lip to keep herself from whimpering. Only when she was out of the study and into the dim corridor did she finally let out a sob—more of a moan, a low howl of dismay. Then she broke into a run, her brocaded slippers tapping daintily on the floor as she screamed for Sage Rauru.

* * *

Link wondered if his history of traumatic separation was giving him commitment problems. He liked Talon and Malon, and he liked working at Lon Lon Ranch, but at the same time he felt a compelling, irresistible urge to leave. Maybe he had worked for Bazlo too long and developed an itching foot. Maybe he was tired of cows and horses and wanted to see some new country. Maybe he wanted to go back to Kakariko and find out more about the mysterious Sheikah people.  
  
But Link imagined the most probable explanation was that he was starting to become very fond of Malon, whose smile reminded him of Saria and whose personality, despite the sassy recklessness and her inability to stop talking, was beginning to feel like a much-needed compass in a life that had gone astray. Attaching didn’t seem like a good idea right now—in the end, all it meant was another broken heart.  
  
Also, he was beginning to feel strange. Not the same kind of strange that Malon sometimes made him feel, or the kind of strange he felt right before he came down with a bad cold; this was an off-balance sort of feeling, a clumsy, creeping, ungraceful sensation deep inside him, as if sometimes his heart decided it wanted to start pumping backward or his brain told him he was really right-handed. He couldn’t put it into words when Malon asked him what was wrong. All he could tell her was that he felt off kilter and that maybe he needed to go away for a little while. Malon wasn’t exactly happy about it, but she understood and supported him—the complete opposite of what Link had expected, which further cemented his idea that women were and always would be mysterious, unpredictable creatures.  
  
He left Lon Lon Ranch on the last day of summer, shaking Talon’s hand as he’d been taught, and giving Malon a tender hug. “Take care of my heart,” he said.  
  
“I’ll carve a notch in it for every day you’re gone.”  
  
After a thoroughly disturbed look had settled on his face, Malon let out a cackle and punched his shoulder (gently). “I’m just kidding, goofus. I’ll take care of it. _You_ just take care of yourself.”  
  
Link promised he would.  
  
A little while later, with his knapsack on his back and his green patchwork scarf around his neck, he stepped onto the north road and began walking.


	5. Old Friends

Zelda sat at the head of her Royal Council, eyes closed and head propped up with one hand, wishing she were on the far side of the country. The last few days had not been kind to her. What little sleep she had managed to catch was plagued with blood-soaked nightmares or silent, clutching darkness—the kind of darkness that smothers the mind of a person who is either dying or senseless. She much preferred the nightmares; at least she knew in the depths of her subconscious that they were only dreams and she would eventually wake up.  
  
She drew in a long breath and sighed it out. Brown half-moons hung under her eyes and her face was long, weary. The physical effects of a few restless nights didn’t cause her concern, though; it was the muddy, stupid haze in her mind she found troubling.  
  
Sage Rauru was seated to her right, Counselor (Uncle) Mortemus at her left. Also in attendance were Sages Impa and Nabooru, as well as the shimmering, miniature images of Sages Ruto, Darunia and Saria, beaming from their respective spiritual stones in the center of the table. The only official members of the Council who had been summoned to this secret meeting were Orendal, the Steward of Hyrule, Chancellor Garrin, and Chief Marshal Lowen. After all, this was a matter of some political and military concern.  
  
For the last hour they had all been debating, some quite passionately, about the possibility of whether or not this was an anomaly in the Lines, and if it were, what was to be done about it. Zelda remained quiet, listening to their arguments while a headache of nauseating proportions hatched behind her eyes.  
  
Orendal was particularly vocal about his concern, and Rauru was beginning to look harassed by his questions.  
  
“We may be Sages,” he said to the Steward, “but even we cannot see the future. All we know at this point is that the painting in King Zurden’s study began bleeding four days ago and has not ceased. Counselor Mortemus inspected it thoroughly and found no spells or enchantment which might be causing this ghastly transformation.”  
  
“And logic dictates that if there is no magic involved, then it must be natural—which we all know it damn well isn’t!” exclaimed Orendal. He was a fair-haired, pudgy man of about fifty, though he looked much older at today’s meeting. “Paintings don’t simply alter themselves and begin spouting blood.”  
  
“So if it’s not magical, and it’s not natural, what do you think it is, then?” asked Marshal Lowen. Like the Steward, he too was in his fifties, but the similarities ended there; the Marshal was dark haired, tall, and in excellent physical condition for his age. He also looked a great deal more composed than his peer, who seemed to bristle at the query.  
  
“I don’t know,” said Orendal. “I’m not the Chief Practician.” He threw a frosty glare at Mortemus, who ignored him entirely. “Perhaps he would care to join the discus—”  
  
“I don’t mean to be crude,” interrupted Impa, gaining the attention of the entire Council, “but blood is often a sign of change, readiness, the beginning of something. I think most of the ladies here understand my meaning.”  
  
“Why the la—oh. Oh, yes, of course.” The Steward colored and cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Please continue, Your Grace.”  
  
Impa said, “Blood can be a symbol of life, but it can also be a symbol of violence and death. Consider how it appeared—running from the eyes of the King and his daughter. Why the eyes? Why not the nose or the mouth?”  
  
“ _Truth lies in the eyes_ ,” said Marshal Lowen, “ _which hold the light of our souls and the shadows of our memories_.”  
  
“I never took you for a poet, Marshal,” Orendal said, massaging his forehead.  
  
“He’s not,” said Impa. “He was quoting a Sheikah proverb.” She gave Lowen a polite smile. “And a very appropriate one. _Karikadah_.”  
  
The Marshal bowed his head respectfully. “ _Kimash’tey_.”  
  
“Eyes are also a symbol of foresight, of seeing the future,” Impa went on. “One might interpret this as a sign that the future of Hyrule is about to turn violent.”  
  
“If this were so, then why in the name of the gods have the celestial bodies all been matched correctly, even to this day?” demanded Orendal, rising from his chair and gesturing to the huge map on the chamber wall. “If that bloody painting is indeed a sign, why haven’t the Lines been disrupted? Why hasn’t the sun risen an hour late and stars shown their winter formations? These are the very anomalies we have been seeking, the ones by which we measure the natural flow of time! Dare I assume that we have been looking in the wrong direction all these years? Do any of you tuly know what form this aberration will take?”  
  
All seven Sages were silent.  
  
“I see. Well, this is a splendid development,” Orendal snorted, and dropped into his seat. “Just splendid.”  
  
The Council was quiet for a few moments, then Nabooru stood. “I don’t know a lot about time,” she said timidly, “or stars, or physics. To be honest, this whole business is making my head spin. But I _do_ know something about music.  
  
“You see, the Gerudo use a lot of drumming and rhythms in their music. You should hear the children when they’re first learning—it sounds awful! We teach them to keep a steady beat by using a pendul, which is a wooden box a lot like a clock, only you can set the beat yourself. It’s a marvelous learning tool.”  
  
“I do hope there’s a point to this charming story.”  
  
Nabooru gave the Steward an irritated look. “The _point_ is that sometimes we have to calibrate the springs in the penduls, otherwise the beat won’t be correct. To do that, we pair a working pendul with one that might be slightly off, and set them at the same tempo. For a little while they sound like they’re in unison, but then . . . one starts to slow. _Cl-click, cl-click_. That’s what it sounds like. And then it becomes a _clic-click, clic-click_. And soon enough you’ll have one clicking on the upbeat and one on the downbeat, completely discordant.  
  
“That’s how I think an anomaly would present itself. Not suddenly, but gradually, like two clocks set at just slightly different speeds. We, we wouldn’t even know there was a problem right away—not unless we received a sign.”  
  
“Yes,” agreed Saria’s emerald avatar. “Like a tree that becomes sick; sometimes it’s hard to tell at first because it takes a long time for the sickness to reach the outside. Unless we’re careful, the tree will already be dead by the time its bark begins to fall off. That’s what happened to the Greak Deku. We had no idea he was dying until it was too late . . .” She trailed off, looking sad.  
  
“I think that’s the best explanation we’ve heard yet,” said Darunia’s avatar in a deep, gravelly voice. “Suppose there _is_ a trace of Ganondorf’s evil out there somewhere; where would it be and how would we destroy it?”  
  
“We’ve already consulted the Quest Line,” Rauru said, pointing to the map on the wall. Two lines ran parallel to each other—one was complete, covered with ticks and notes, symbols and sketches. The other was just a little less than half the length of the other. “We’ve determined that the Hero was somewhere in the Water Temple when Princess Zelda discovered the bleeding painting four days ago. If this is a genuine aberration, then whatever caused it must be somewhere at Lake Hylia.”  
  
The eyes of the Council were all drawn to the sapphire avatar of Princess Ruto. “Hey, don’t look at _me_ ,” she cried. “My people abandoned that place years ago! Suddenly no one wanted to stay there, and I couldn’t blame them, so we closed it up and built a new temple at the spring in Zoraltar. There’s nothing left at Hylia except shadows and stale water.”  
  
“I still think we ought to send somebody there,” said Darunia. “Just to be sure. No offense, your highness, but you may have overlooked something.”  
  
“And you may overlook my fine blue bottom when you bend down and kiss it.”  
  
“Your Graces, please,” Lowen interrupted, although he was desperately trying not to grin. “I’d be happy to send a company of troops to investigate Lake Hylia.”  
  
“Can any of your men breathe underwater, Marshal?” Orendal asked.  
  
Lowen frowned thoughtfully. “Perhaps Princess Ruto could supply some of her royal guard to—”  
  
“Nope,” she chirped. “No Zora in his right mind would set fin or flipper into that haunted place. Besides, your men would be lost within five minutes.”  
  
“Haunted? I thought you said the Temple was empty,” Darunia growled.  
  
“It’s _creepy_ , alright? Haunted or not, I couldn’t get my men into that underwater tomb if I ordered them under pain of death!”  
  
“Let’s all settle down, shall we?” said Rauru, pressing his hands together. “I agree with Sage Darunia—the Temple must be investigated . . . and I think we all know who is most suited for the task.”  
  
Saria made a small noise in her throat; she pressed her hand to her lips, as if to keep it from spilling out. She looked distinctly distressed.  
  
Rauru continued, “There’s only one problem: we don’t know where he is. When I last looked in on Link, he was working at Lon Lon Ranch. He has since left, and neither the rancher nor his daughter knows where he might have gone.”  
  
Orendal dropped his face into his hands and groaned, “Why couldn’t we have just brought him to the castle three years ago? A sign has arisen that the world might be coming to an end, and now we have to perform a kingdom-wide manhunt for a teenager who could very well refuse to help us! I don’t think it’s—”  
  
“He won’t refuse.”  
  
All eyes turned toward Zelda. She looked as if she were still dozing in her chair, but it was certainly she who had spoken.  
  
“Your Highness?” said Rauru.  
  
“Link won’t refuse. That’s not the way he is,” Zelda answered, opening her eyes. “But Orendal is right. We’d be wasting time—not our most expendable commodity at the moment—trying to find him. Saria?”  
  
“Yes, ma’am—er, Your Highness?”  
  
“Send word to the young Deku and all who dwell in the forest that we need his help in finding someone.”  
  
Confusion creased Saria’s face. “But Miss Zelda, Link left Kokiri years ago.”  
  
“I know. We’re not looking for Link.” Zelda gazed at the perplexed faces of her Council. “We’re looking for Navi.”

* * *

Link had traveled the northwestern road many times, mostly in Bazlo Bartlin’s wagon. A horse would have been faster than just his own two feet, and Talon had been than happy to loan him a mount, but Link politely refused. He was in no hurry. He was, however, going to buy some red potion at the earliest opportunity; he had tripped at least half a dozen times and gone straight to the ground like a bag of dead meat. His reflexes and equilibrium seemed to be shot lately.  
  
He almost decided to take the south road out to Lake Hylia and do some fishing there, but his increasing clumsiness and persistent feeling of unease was becoming too much for him to stand. He needed medicine or a doctor or maybe a week-long stay at a hot spring, and Treeberg had all three. So he ignored the curious feelings that were dragging him toward the lake and instead went north.  
  
The road to the north woods was long, hilly, and quiet. Link was accustomed to traveling on foot for days at a time, thanks to the few backpacking excursions Bazlo had taken him on, but traveling by himself was something quite different. It was tedious, lonely, and the nights were a little disquieting. Not that Link was afraid of the dark or whatever dwelled in it, but he felt most isolated at night, when the world was silent and sleepy—and there he was, awake and alone. He wished he had a friend or a partner, someone who would always be around to keep him company. He thought of the Kokiri and their lifelong fairy companions, and became a little more depressed.  
  
The only thing that lifted his spirits was playing his ocarina. He would take it out after building the evening fire and breathe his spirit into its wooden void, filling it with music. Its airy voice would stretch off into the darkening hills and up into the sky like an invisible mist. Sometimes he would play songs that he knew—Saria’s or Malon’s or one of the many tunes he’d heard around Hyrule. Other times he would let his mind wander and his fingers would find the music on their own. One night he played a series of six notes—good notes, very natural, as if they belonged together—and heard a rumble of thunder sound in the clear, starry sky above. His skin had prickled, but he didn’t know why.  
  
He arrived in Treeberg after three days’ travel, just before sundown. The town was nestled in the pine-covered hills at the base of the Norwoder Mountains, its main thoroughfare a winding, serpentine path of cobblestone that went up and up and eventually turned into a dirt trail that only hunters or mountain climbers used. Link liked Treeberg. It was probably all the trees, and the closeness of the little shops and homes with their rustic stone façades and thatched roofs. It felt a lot like Kokiri. The people here were quiet and polite, except when they visited The Groaning Oak Tavern, whose proprietors made a wickedly potent mead from the honey of their own beehives.  
  
But Link wasn’t interested in The Groaning Oak tonight. He was heading toward the Varmaten Inn, and the hot springs around which the town of Treeberg was built. It was a dark, rustic establishment, the closest to living in a tree that one could get; everything in it was made of wood, right down to the sinks. It was an especially cozy place to stay in the winter. Link recalled how he and Bazlo had gotten stranded there two years ago when it had snowed for a solid week and the main road became blocked by a massive drift. The two of them had spent days picking and hacking at the icy mountain holding the town hostage. They finally managed to break through and clear the road, and that evening most of the town had ended up celebrating at The Groaning Oak, where Link had gotten drunk for the first (and hopefully last) time in his life. He didn’t remember much, but apparently he had jumped up on a table with his ocarina and started belting out a series of songs that no one had ever heard before—names like _Minuet of the Forest_ and _Song of Storms_ —and they were a big hit. Then he had taken a dive off of the table and hit his head, and Bazlo told him that he had been asking where his hover boots were, he thought he was wearing them, he wasn’t stupid enough to just walk off of a table . . .  
  
Link smiled at the memory as he stepped through the door of the Varmaten Inn. The stocky, bearded man behind the counter looked up and smiled. “Ahh, Link! Good time to see again, yes! What for can I do to help you today?”  
  
“ _Halla, Har-Nilsten_ ,” said Link said in Norspak, the language of the peoples of the north. “Uh . . . _et roym, tark_.”  
  
Nilsten was already searching for a room key. “Woan room, yes good! No Har-Bartlin? Wo-are he is?”  
  
“He went to see his brother,” Link answered, not even attempting the translation. “Only me this time.”  
  
“Ah, _brord_.” The innkeeper nodded seriously. “Important, _brordi_ and _sasti_ , all _fomilia_. How long to stay, you think?”  
  
Link took the key that Nilsten handed him. “Until I check out.”  
  
The man roared with laughter. “Very good joke, Har-Link! You very laughing guy, you know! And always, same room as last time, yes? Best woan in the house. Get you some resting, you looking a little _tretbrok_.”  
  
Link thanked him and headed for the staircase, smiling a little to himself.  
  
Bazlo was right again, he thought. They always remember the ones who know how to say “thank you”.

* * *

The sun was sinking below the horizon at Kakariko Village, bathing the rooftops with a blazing wash of orange and gold. The creaking windmill soaked up the last rays of light and cast its shadow eastward, the dark shapes of its vanes slowly turning round and round. The shops were closing up and people returning to their homes; bakers and butchers, merchants and masons.  
  
Chief Marshal Lowen, looking much less formidable in civilian attire, made his way through the center of the village. He carried a small collection of late summer wildflowers in one hand. He smiled as three young children barreled past him, answering their mother’s call to supper. He could remember being that young and carefree, playing from sunup to sundown. The memory was getting a bit blurrier every year, but it was still there, still good.  
  
He sprang up the steps of the village thoroughfare with the lightness of a man twenty years younger, and followed the path until he came to the outskirts of the village. Rocky mountain walls loomed tall against the sky. Up ahead, built in a grassy corner away from the rest of the houses, was a blocky, two-storey cottage. Its walls were clay, painted with lime. It had a simple, tidy look. There was smoke rising from its single chimney, and a pair of young oaks flanked the stone pathway to the front door. Lowen took a moment to comb a hand over his hair before he knocked, carefully avoiding the red emblem of a weeping eye painted in the center of the door.  
  
There was silence on the other side for a short while, then the door opened. Impa, Sage of Shadow and one of the last surviving members of the Sheikah tribe, smiled wearily at the flowers that greeted her.  
  
“Hello, Lowen,” she said. Like the Marshal, she also appeared to be favoring the casual and comfortable today; she wore a short, loose-fitting robe and a pair of calf-length linen pants. On her feet were sandals instead of boots, and her silver hair fell loosely onto her shoulders. For a woman close to a hundred and ten years old, she looked to be in her thirties—and she was very beautiful, in a rugged, mysterious way.  
  
“My lady Impa,” Lowen answered, bowing. “I bring you a gift from the fields of Hyrule.”  
  
“Pixie weed and red dandelions. How very thoughtful.”  
  
“Only the finest allergies for my Lady Sage.”  
  
Impa stifled a laugh, her cheeks coloring slightly. She moved aside and bade him come in. Lowen made his way over to the table while Impa searched for a vase.  
  
“So . . . what do you think of the Council’s decision?” he asked, taking a seat at the table.  
  
Impa had found a vase and filled it with water from the house cistern. “I think we have no other choice,” she said solemnly. “I only wish there were someone else we could send.”  
  
“Instead of Ilya?”  
  
“Instead of Link. He’s already done enough for Hyrule. Restoration was _our_ responsibility, not his. Asking him to clean up our mistake . . . it’s unfair. Tea?”  
  
“Yes, please.”  
  
Impa lifted a steaming pot from the stove and poured dark red tea into two cups. Lowen waited to see if she would say more, but she didn’t.  
  
“Do you think Ilya is up to the task?” he asked at length. “He’s only twenty-one. You Sheikah train for nearly thirty years before sending your warriors into—”  
  
“I know how young he is, Lowen,” said Impa testily, carrying the cups to the table and setting one down in front of him. “That’s why I’ve been training him twice as hard as any other student I’ve had. He just . . .” She sat down in the chair across from him, looking tired and worried. “He’s aging too quickly. Like a . . .”  
  
“I know.”  
  
They paused to sip their tea together.  
  
“Has he mentioned anything to you about it? He might talk to you more readily than his mean Aunt Impa.”  
  
Lowen smiled but shook his head. “No, he hasn’t said anything. Do you think he knows?”  
  
“He must suspect something by now. He isn’t naïve, not like I was at his age.”  
  
“Of course, at twenty-one you were still a little girl.”  
  
Impa smiled thinly. “Yes, I was.”  
  
They sat in silence for a little while, comfortable enough with one another to not be intimidated by a lack of conversation. Red-orange sunlight slanted through the open windows, drawing sharp rhombuses on the white walls. A breeze meandered through the house, and somewhere outside a wind chime jingled delicately.  
  
“Today is his mother’s birthday,” said Impa. “He’s up in the graveyard if you want to see him.”  
  
“Would you like me to go see him, Impa?”  
  
“Yes. I think he . . . Yes, please, if it’s not too much trouble.”  
  
“Oh. Is he still . . . ?” Lowen gestured to his forearm.  
  
“Probably. Especially on days like today.”  
  
Lowen nodded and stood. “Alright. I’ll go see what I can do.”  
  
“Thank you,” said Impa. “You’re welcome to stay for dinner, by the way.”  
  
Lowen arched an eyebrow. “Are you bribing me with food, Your Grace?”  
  
Impa laughed—a rarity and a blessing. “No! You already agreed to see him. I am merely extending an invitation.”  
  
“And a gracious one it is, my lady. I accept.”  
  
“Thank you, Chief Marshal.”  
  
Lowen’s grin faded a little as he gazed at the Sheikah woman with wistful, almost sad eyes. She stared back at him, the Hylian man less than half her age and more than half finished with his life. Then she lowered her gaze and tightened her fingers around her teacup.  
  
Lowen opened his mouth to speak, but the words never came. He sighed, turned, and walked to the door.

* * *

The Kakariko Cemetery was the final resting place for members of the royal family of Hyrule. Princess Zelda would have been able to recognize the name on each tombstone and give a brief history of the deceased’s relation to her, describing in detail the notable things he or she had accomplished during his or her reign, as well as the cause of death. Most of them had simply died of old age—a few had passed prematurely, and at least one or two had been murdered.  
  
It was unusual—some might call it offensive—that a servant should be interred in the same soil as his masters; King Zurden had defied tradition when he decreed that Ilyana, his personal Sheikah bodyguard, be buried in the same plot as his own family. Ilyana had been Impa’s predecessor, a woman who was not only a master of _sheikato_ , the Sheikah Tribe’s own stylized martial arts, but also a skilled _dokukah_ —a poison specialist. She had been raised for such a task from birth, learning the color, smell and taste of every poison and toxic plant in the world. Her body had built up an immunity to these poisons, which allowed her to be an effective tool for King Zurden and his new wife, Queen Freyda of Midynas. Tragically, Ilyana had died of a fatal overdose when her son was only three years old. Impa had stepped in as her replacement, and adopted her orphaned child without hesitation.  
  
That child now sat on his legs in front of a beautifully carved tombstone, the gauze sleeve of his uniform uncoiled in his lap. He held a _kunai_ —a narrow, diamond-shaped dagger—in his right hand, and was making a series of long cuts on the tender underside of his forearm, close to his elbow. His face was serene, his ruby-colored eyes deep and distant, as if he were traveling to a faraway place in his mind instead of sitting at the grave of his mother.  
  
He collected the blood that welled up from the lacerations and used it to paint the relief of the Sheikah emblem carved onto the headstone. It was large, and it had taken a while to cover it—but that was no matter. He had been doing this for years. White, upraised scars covered his arms from elbow to wrist, a morbid calendar of anger, frustration and grief.  
  
“Hello, Lowen,” he said suddenly, adding a final stroke of red to the weeping eye symbol.  
  
Lowen, more than twenty paces away, acknowledged defeat with a shake of his head. “I still find it amazing how you people can do that.”  
  
“We always seek to impress,” said Ilya, wiping his knife and hastily beginning to rewrap his arm. Not hastily enough—Lowen crouched at his side in time to see the red stains bleeding through the gauze.  
  
“Something on your mind, Ilya?” he asked gently, raising his head to look at the freshly-painted headstone. His brow creased with worry. That was a lot of blood.  
  
“On my mind?” Ilya smiled humorlessly. “The Royal Council has ordered me to accompany the greatest hero of all time on a quest to save the world from certain destruction, and all I can think about is my dead mother. She was all I had, Lowen, and I barely remember her.”  
  
Lowen was quiet, his heart a heavy, sore lump in his chest. He had known Ilya ever since he was a small child, but had only truly gotten to know him in the last ten or twelve years. There was little reason to be alarmed at his loneliness and confusion, especially back then; it was completely natural. What was unnatural was the way it had stalked him into adulthood, grown claws and teeth, and was now eating him alive.  
  
Lowen eased out of his crouch and sat on the ground. His knees popped loudly; some aspects of old age were difficult to conceal. “Do you know why they chose you, Ilya?”  
  
“Because I was with him on the first quest, and the Council thinks he’ll be more likely to trust an old friend. But that wasn’t really me, Lowen. That was just my body. Zelda should be the one going with him.”  
  
“Even if Her Highness and the other Sages didn’t have important matters to deal with, it would be foolish of her to go. The Temple is bound to be dangerous, and if there’s going to be a future for Hyrule, it would be best if there’s still a monarch around to govern it.”  
  
“Which means I am at her disposal yet again. It must be nice to be royalty.” Ilya looked aside, scowling. “The worst thing about it,” he said after a few moments, “is that I never even got to know him. Zelda speaks of him as if he were a demi-god, but I know nothing about him other than what she has told me.”  
  
“Are you afraid you won’t get along?”  
  
“I’m afraid he’s going to be an arrogant asshole.”  
  
Lowen couldn’t help it—he laughed. Ilya looked over and started grinning despite himself.  
  
“Look,” said Lowen, putting a hand on the Sheikah’s shoulder, “I don’t know much about Link either, but I don’t think he’s going to be the arrogant type. What was your impression when you met him at the well last year?”  
  
“So Aunt Impa told you about that.”  
  
“She told me you broke the Oath, but I suppose that doesn’t matter anymore, considering the current situation.”  
  
“He didn’t seem that bad,” said Ilya thoughtfully. “A little insistent, though. Maybe that’s why I said those things; to keep him away.” He looked up at the deep purple-blue of the darkening sky. “It’s as if I _wanted_ to frighten him, to see this great, legendary hero confused and afraid . . .” He gave an anemic half-smile. “More like me, I guess.”  
  
“But there _is_ no one like you, Ilya,” said Lowen, meaning it as a compliment.  
  
“I know,” he sighed, rising to his feet. He gazed at the tombstones of his ancestors’ masters with narrow, bitter eyes. “And maybe that’s the root of all my problems.”

* * *

Torches twinkled through the steamy air behind the Varmaten Inn, giving it a cozy ambiance. Link let out a happy groan as he sank neck deep into the hot springs’ milky blue water, digging his feet into the silty mud on the bottom. He felt better already. Any problem that couldn’t be fixed with hot clay and sulfur water wasn’t really a problem as far as he was concerned.  
  
He basked and soaked for a while, then reached down and scooped up handfuls of the grayish, mineral-rich sludge, clapping it on top of his head and on his shoulders and slathering it all over his face. He grinned with the delighted abandon of a young boy. It felt good to be happy.  
  
Summer’s end was the off season for Treeberg’s tourist industry, and Link had the whole spring to himself—just the way he liked it. He took his time, soaking and mudding and wallowing and soaking some more, until his fingers and toes began to wrinkle. He climbed out and rinsed off under one of the many natural waterfalls, then made his way up to his room dressed in a robe and slippers, toweling the dampness out of his hair. He yawned, thinking how nice it would be to crawl into bed, sleep until noon tomorrow, then go downstairs and get a huge plate of Mama Nilsten’s meatballs with extra gravy and a slab of _noetbrott_ . . .  
  
He opened the door to his room and halted. It was dimly-lit inside, the lantern beside the bed burning low and brown. Its small flame was billowing gently—strangely. Link’s eyes moved to the window above the bed. It was wide open, the room full of cool night air. It had been closed when he’d left.  
  
He shut the door behind himself and crossed the room, climbing onto the bed. He closed the window tightly, checking the latch hook. Nothing wrong with it. He wondered if the housekeeper had opened it, but she didn’t usually make her rounds until midday. Perhaps it hadn’t been properly fastened and had blown open—  
  
As Link gazed at his reflection in the glass, a blue ball of light suddenly flashed behind him, streaking from right to left. He spun around and saw only the empty room.  
  
“Hello?” he said, eyes darting around, looking for some kind of weapon. The closest was his Deku stick in the corner. He slid slowly off the bed and sidled over to it. “If anyone is there, you’d better show yourself now,” he declared, grasping the stick and holding it like a bat. “I don’t play games.”  
  
A blinding orb of blue light suddenly popped up at the end of Link’s nose.  
  
“Are you _crazy_?” the light cried. “You used to _love_ playing ga—”  
  
Link shouted in surprise and swiped at the intruder. At that close range, his left hand came cross his own nose; there was a fleshy snap followed by fresh, hot pain. The ball of light went into orbit around his head, yelling for him to stop and watch out. Link wasn’t listening. He was pretty sure he had broken his nose. He took a step backward and stumbled over his boots. He jammed his stick behind himself in an effort to break his fall, but it wasn’t enough to stop the momentum of the rest of his body. He crashed to the floor on his back, his right hand sliding down the stick and collecting a few needles of splinters, and smashed his left elbow into the floor so hard that the pain went shooting all the way down to his toes.  
  
“Aauuuuuhhwwww!” he roared, lying on his back and wondering how on earth he had managed to inflict so much damage to himself in such a short amount of time. He raised his trembling hands above his face—one smeared with blood and the other flecked with bits of wood. He let out a dismayed whine.  
  
The blue light was suddenly back, hovering above him. “Great faes of fire, you have _never_ been this clumsy before,” it said in a twinkling, feminine voice. “Are you sick? Do you need your inner ear checked?”  
  
Link pulled himself into a sitting position, sneering with pain. A small runnel of blood was leaking from his left nostril, drying on his upper lip. “Who are you?” he groaned. “And what did I ever do to you?”  
  
“Why, Link! Don’t you recognize me at all? Not even the teeniest bit?” The glowing ball drew close, leaving a trail of fading sparkles in its wake.  
  
“No,” he said, pulling himself to his feet. “I think I’d remember something that caused me this much pain.”  
  
“You dunce! It’s me, Navi, your fairy!”  
  
Suddenly Link felt a spectacular headache coming on. “Navi. Yes, of course,” he muttered, wiping his nose with the sleeve of his robe. “How silly of me. Navi the Fairy. The one I grew up with in Kokiri all those years ago, my bestest friend in all the world, now returning to me from across the rolling plains of Poppycock in the great kingdom of Balderdash. Excuse me.”

He limped past Navi and over to his bed, crouching down to drag his leather knapsack out from under it. He pawed through the bag until he found what he was looking for: the bottle of red potion he had purchased at the Treeberg Apothecary that evening. Navi flew over and perched on the headboard, watching as he uncorked the bottle and took a small sip.  
  
“You’ve changed,” she said softly. “You weren’t this sarcastic when we . . . when we knew each other. I guess it was foolish to think that you would remember me. It’s been seven years, after all.”  
  
“Look, fairy,” said Link, putting away the potion, “I think you’ve gotten me mixed up with somebody else, and I’m not feeling too well right now, so why don’t you buzz off and go wreck someone else’s night, alright?” He stretched out on top of the covers and put his arm over his eyes.  
  
Navi flew down and alighted on his chest. “It’ll only get worse.”  
  
“You don’t say.”  
  
“You’re probably feeling it, too. Something’s wrong but you can’t quite place it. You feel strange, don’t you? Your head probably hurts and you may think you’re coming down with a cold, but you’re not, Link. It’s something that no potion or magic spell can cure.”  
  
Link raised his head. “How do you know this? Have you been stalking me?”  
  
“No. But I’ve been listening for you. We fairies are excellent listeners, you know. We can hear for miles, and in some places we still hear echoes of things that happened long ago. I heard you playing Saria’s ocarina and I knew immed—”  
  
“You know Saria?” Link cried, sitting bolt upright and sending Navi rolling down his robe. “How? Have you seen her? Is she alright?”  
  
“She’s fine,” grunted Navi, picking herself up. “But that’s not why I’m here. You must come with me to Hyrule Castle Town. Only then will you fully understand what is happening to you, and how it can be stopped.”  
  
“Why? What’s happening to me? Is it bad?”  
  
“If I tried to explain it to you now, your head would probably split. Until we get your memories back, it would be better if you just trust me and do as I say.”  
  
“‘Get my memories back’? What memories? What do you mean?” Link frowned. “For that matter, why should I trust you? I don’t even know you.”  
  
“You did, once,” said Navi, flying over to where Link’s hat hung at the foot of the bed. She settled into it as if it were her home. “And you will again. But first get some rest, we have a long ride ahead of us tomorrow.”  
  
“But—”  
  
“Sleep!”  
  
Link, his brow knitted into an expression of utter incomprehension, slowly laid down again and stared at the ceiling. He felt like he was going insane. How could this fairy possibly know Saria, or that she had given him her ocarina? Had she come from Kokiri Forest as well? And what memories had he forgotten? Wasn’t that a paradox, forgetting a memory? How could a memory be a memory if it was forgotten? Shouldn't it be called a “forgettery” instead?  
  
Thoughts throbbed in his head like a freshly hammered thumb. This blasted headache. The potion should have gotten rid of it by now. Why was it still there?  
  
_Something that no potion or magic spell can cure . . ._  
  
Absurd. What ailment existed that could not be cured by medicine or magic?  
  
Somehow, in spite of the ache in his skull and the questions burning in his mind like black, hot coals, sleep came to Link that night—and it brought dreams of shadows and water.

 


	6. Matters of Time

A bright light flashed on the other side of his closed eyes, and he knew that Navi’s wake-up call was about to begin. Though half asleep, he cringed and pulled the pillow over his head.  
  
“ _Wake up, wake up, rise and shine!_ ” she sang, flying above Link’s huddled form. “ _The morning light is fresh and fine, and we have many things we must attend to_!”  
  
“There _is_ no morning light, Navi, go away,” he groaned.  
  
She grasped a corner of the quilt and gleefully threw it back. “ _It’s a bright and bonnie day, so let’s not sleep it all away! After all_ —”  
  
“— _time stops for no one, even you_. I know, I’ll get up in just a second, just . . . ten more minutes.”  
  
Navi’s blue glow had gone white with shock. “You _remembered_. It’s impossible, but you remembered!”  
  
“Membered what.”  
  
“The wake-up song! It’s something I came up with during your ques—um. When we knew each other. It annoyed you to the point of madness.”  
  
“Now _that_ ,” said Link, “is the first believable thing you’ve told me yet.”  
  
“Well, believe me when I tell you that we’ve got a long way to go and we need to get moving _now_.” Navi flew down and began tugging on the collar of Link’s robe. She was surprisingly strong . . . and very bright. Even though his eyes were closed, Link grimaced at her brilliance.  
  
“Alright. _Alright_ , I give up,” he grunted, sitting up and massaging his eyes. He looked rough; his face was pinched and pale, and his hair, which had still been damp when he fell asleep last night, lay flat on one side and stood out in crooked spikes on the other. There was a crust of dried blood under his left nostril (his nose had not been broken, at least) and his headache had mercifully retreated to the deeper regions of his brain—for now. He could feel it tingling there, waiting for an opportunity to drag itself, shrieking and clawing, back out into the light.  
  
“So what’s the plan?” he asked, blearily pulling on his pants and catching his foot in the folds. He stumbled and nearly fell flat on his face. Navi couldn’t tell if it was because he was half asleep or wholly uncoordinated. She decided she should help him before he broke something—like a bone.  
  
“First we’re going to get you a horse,” she explained, flying his long white undershirt over to him. “Then we’re going to take the east road to Hyrule. I know a few shortcuts, so we can—here, let me help you with that sleeve—so we can cut an hour or more off of our journey. We should arrive in town at early evening, by my calculations.”  
  
Link finished pulling on his clothes and studied his reflection in the long mirror in the corner. “I hope I’m not meeting anyone important today. I look awful.”  
  
“Er, well . . .” Navi’s glow went a little pink as she flew over with Link’s belt. “I wouldn’t worry about that. I’ve seen you look worse, take my word for it.”  
  
“I guess I’ll have to, since I have no earthly memory of you.”  
  
Navi sighed and fetched Link’s hat from the corner of the bed. “Listen, I know this all must seem very suspicious, asking you to follow someone you see as a complete stranger,” she said, dropping the hat onto his head and flying around to face him. “I understand I’m asking a lot. But I promise you, Link, by the end of this day you will remember everything that you’ve forgotten, and then you will understand. All I need for you to do right now is to please, _please_ trust me. Can you do that, Link? Will you?”  
  
Link offered up a small, relenting smile. “Well, since you asked so nicely . . .”  
  
Navi let out a burst of sparkles and did a few loops in the air. “Excellent! Wonderful! Oh, I’m so glad!”  
  
“I can tell,” Link said, fanning away the falling glitter. “Is this stuff safe to breathe? It tickles my nose.”  
  
Unable to contain herself, Navi swooped down and gave his cheek a full-bodied smack. “Come on!” she cried. “To the stable!”

* * *

The Norwod people had little need for horses in their mountainous region, preferring to navigate the rugged terrain with ponies or mules; nevertheless, they usually kept one or two horses for southbound travelers, and to this effect had set up a rather convenient taxi system with the surrounding towns and villages. There was only one horse left at the Treeberg livery stable, and this was where Link passed a few of his remaining rupees into the keeper’s hand. A few minutes later he was on the heavily wooded east road, following Navi the Fairy toward Hyrule Castle Town. She was very animated and talkative, telling stories about the great forests of Norrelm, Hyrule’s northern neighbor, and legends about tree spirits and magical beasts and how greatly things had changed in the last hundred years.  
  
Link listened as best as he could. He still felt dull and sleepy, and if it hadn’t been for the rough-gaited horse he was riding, he might have fallen asleep in the saddle. He wished he had a few spoonfuls of that bitter black stuff the Gerudos drank—what did they call it? Kafey? Koufie? Bazlo had introduced him to it on their first trip to the Valley, and Link, after obliviously downing his whole cup to get rid of it as quickly (and politely) as possible, could have outrun Lon Lon’s fastest horses. He hadn’t been able to sleep for thirty two hours. Bazlo called it the nectar of the gods. Link called it liquid lightning.  
  
He smiled at the memory, and when his thoughts returned to the present, his smile remained. Navi was perched on top of the horse’s head, humming to herself. It was nice to have company again, he thought. For the first time since Bazlo had left Hyrule, he felt as if he were finally heading in the right direction.

* * *

After a short midday break, Navi steered him off the east road and down forest paths practically invisible to the human eye. These were the shortcuts she had spoken of, and some would have been quite treacherous without a guide; however, she kept Link well-informed of any dangers, and gradually the trees began to thin as the forest gave way to fields.  
  
The walls of Hyrule Castle Town were in sight by sunset, as Navi had predicted. The bright colors that had stretched across the sky hours before had shrunk to a narrow yellow ribbon on the horizon. Now the pale blue veil of twilight, sparkling with stars, drew down over the land like a luxurious curtain.  
  
Link reined his horse before the drawbridge and gazed through the gate at the town inside: cobbled streets and glass-windowed shops, a bubbling, cheerful fountain in the middle of the square, lanterns being lit along the streets, small dogs skittering between people’s legs, the smell of food and fireplaces, the sound of laughter and music, and the white spires of the castle standing sentry over it all. Link’s heart suddenly ached and his eyes began to gleam.  
  
“Hey, what’s wrong?” Navi asked quietly, hovering beside his shoulder. “Is something the matter?”  
  
“I don’t know,” Link said, blinking. Two tears skidded unexpectedly down his cheeks. “I’ve never been inside the castle walls before. Bazlo and I, we never had a reason to come, we weren’t contracted with any of the merchants here . . . But I feel as if I know this place. I know . . .” His gaze suddenly focused inward, his eyes narrowing in concentration. “On the first side street to the left there’s a farrier, and next door there’s the blacksmith’s booth. I had a sword re-forged there. And to the right is the confectionery where I first tasted chocolate . . .”  
  
Black spots began to bloom in Link’s field of vision, and when he snapped out of his trance, the headache he had been dreading all day came roaring into his skull with the fury of an erupting volcano. He let out a groan and bowed in the saddle, his forehead touching the horse’s mane.  
  
Navi, white with shock, flew down to him. “Link! How are you doing this? You shouldn’t be remembering! Are you hurt? Is it your head again? Oh-!” She darted over to the reins and jerked them up and over the horse’s head. She pulled, leading the animal over the drawbridge. He went easily enough—thank goodness. Navi didn’t know what she would have done if he had been stubborn.  
  
She steered the horse into the center of town and then tugged rightward. A few people in the streets turned their heads at the odd sight, but most of the townsfolk were too busy attending to their own affairs to take notice of them.  
  
“Don’t worry, Link,” Navi puffed. “The Temple isn’t far. Just a few more minutes, then we’ll get you some help.”  
  
It took a few minutes of coaxing to get the horse up the three steps leading to the courtyard of the Temple of Time, but the troublesome beast finally relented and brought them to the middle of the grassy lawn. The stars were out now, twinkling down at them from their dark, lofty realm. Navi flew to Link and pulled at his sleeve urgently.  
  
“Can you get down? I don’t think I can move you myself. Link?”  
  
Slowly Link raised his head. He was grimacing in pain. Beads of sweat stood out on his brow. “I can move. I think.” He set his jaw and grasped a fistful of the horse’s mane, then drew his right leg over the saddle. He hung there for a moment, eyes closed and cheeks flushed red, before finally sliding off. His left boot hung in the stirrup momentarily, but he managed to shake it loose and touch ground with both feet. It was the wave of vertigo that sent him thumping to his knees.  
  
“Link!” cried Navi, streaking down to his side. “Are you alright?”  
  
For a few long moments he remained where he had fallen, head bowed and body hunched, clenching the grass in his fingers. “I haven’t been alright for weeks,” he said in a rough, strained voice. “My head feels like it weighs a thousand pounds. What is happening to me?”  
  
“You’re breaking free,” came a voice from behind.  
  
Slowly Link raised his eyes toward the Temple of Time. In the doorway stood a short, solid-looking old man in a long brown robe.  
  
“Sage Rauru!” Navi exclaimed. “Thank goodness you’re here! Do you think you can help him?”  
  
“I’m certain I can,” said the old man, hurrying across the yard. He peered down at Link in such a wide-eyed, inquisitive way that Link suddenly recalled the day he had left Kokiri, and the nosy owl that had accosted him at the forest’s edge. What was his name? Corporal . . . no. Capeoral—  
  
“Kaepora,” Link corrected his own thought, and Sage Rauru’s eyes widened in his round face.  
  
“Breaking free indeed,” he said, reaching down and grasping Link’s arm. “I don’t know how you’ve managed to do it, my lad, overpowering the binding spell, but you’ve always been an extraordinary one. Come now, let’s get you inside.”  
  
“But the owl,” Link said as he was lifted up. “He’s a man, too. He can fly. His feathers are the pages of all books. He holds a candle called Knowledge . . . to light the dark places of the world . . .”  
  
“He’s raving,” Navi fretted. “Oh, Rauru, do something!”  
  
“Calm yourself. He may be delirious, but he’s not dying. Now listen, Navi, I need you to go and fetch the Princess. Tell her that the Hero has come and we will commence the restoration as soon as she arrives. Quickly now!”  
  
Navi shot away like a speeding blue arrow and disappeared into the night.  
  
Rauru pulled Link’s arm around his shoulders and grasped his belt in his other hand. “Steady, my boy. Lean on me and get your feet under yourself.”  
  
Link began to walk with him, his face twisted in agony. “There’s a black storm in my head, Kaepora. Shadows. Shards,” he croaked. “I broke and left myself behind in there, down in the deep. I have to go back . . . into the water . . .”  
  
Rauru’s skin prickled warningly. “That’s enough now,” he whispered. “Save your breath and keep walking.”  
  
Link heaved a sigh as heavy as seven years, and waded into the storm.

* * *

Since the discovery of the bleeding painting in her father’s study, Zelda had closed off the entire east wing and taken to sleeping in the library—not entirely by coincidence. The library was her favorite room in the whole castle, full of pleasant memories and childhood books that were as dear to her as old friends, if she had had any of those. Many of those books had been pulled from the shelves, dusted off, reread, and stacked about the dark blue velvet chaise that Zelda now called her bed, though she seldom slept anymore. Her dreams were too dark and troubled to allow her much rest. Instead she passed the long hours of night reading by lamplight, taking her mind away on happy, familiar adventures and escaping the sickening stress of reality. She knew it was childish, hedging herself in with these beloved books as if they were protective talismans, but it kept her together. It was difficult enough to act calm when one’s worst nightmare had come true, but having to wait in the meantime was enough to drive a person mad. Zelda had decided that going back to her childhood was a healthier alternative than going insane, and that was where Mortemus found her this evening: curled up on the chaise in her nightclothes and dressing gown, her tiara absent and her hair gathered into a fraying two-day-old braid. She had formed a nest out of blankets and pillows, and on the floor beside her lay a tray with an empty goblet, naked stems from a cluster of grapes, and dirty plate—the remains of lunch.  
  
She stopped chewing her thumbnail and looked up when the Counselor entered, carrying a tray in his unsteady hands. “Uncle Mortemus,” she said, smiling weakly and closing her book. The circles under her eyes stood out like bruises.  
  
“Good evening, Princess,” said the Chief Practician of Magic, hazarding his way through the tangle of pillows and books. He bent down stiffly and placed the tray on the foot of the chaise. “I thought you could do with a bit of my special herb tea. It will soothe your nerves and help you sleep.”  
  
“That’s very kind of you, Mortemus. Thank you.”  
  
“My pleasure, dear. No, please, let me pour it for you. I’m not completely invalid yet. You just make yourself comfortable.”  
  
Zelda watched as the old man struggled to wrap his arthritic fingers around the teapot’s handle. He poured the tea as steadily as his palsied hands would permit, inadvertently splashing a little onto the blankets; he either didn’t notice or pretended to ignore it.  
  
“You know, I used to make this tea for your father when he couldn’t sleep,” he said as he passed the dripping cup to Zelda’s hands. “I don’t make it very often anymore—some of the roots are getting hard to find—but it would always set his mind at ease. I thought perhaps it might do the same for you. Don’t laugh, child. I know a cup of tea won’t solve the world’s problems, but it will certainly mend the spirits of those in charge of it. Of course, I’ve always maintained that if magic or tea couldn’t solve your problem, then you didn’t have a problem at all.” He sat down at Zelda’s feet with a tired grunt.  
  
“Have there been any reports of anomalies in the kingdom?” she asked, blowing the steam from her cup. “I’ve been afraid to ask.”  
  
“No incidents yet; but you shouldn’t worry yourself about that now,” Mortemus admonished gently, patting her ankle. “The Council will handle any issues that arise.”  
  
“Yes, but can you handle Orendal? He can be rather forward, if you know what I mean.”  
  
“Oh, I’m not afraid of our plump little windbag. If he’s not bellowing about one thing or another, he feels he’s not doing his job. As such, I shall continue to be the voice of reason at the meetings until you feel ready to join us again.”  
  
“Thank you, Uncle. Sometimes I wonder what I would do without you.”  
  
Mortemus’s broad, drooping mouth tried to form a reassuring smile. “Oh, you’d get along well enough, I wager. You’re very much like your father, you know. Tenacious and a trifle headstrong, but that can be a good trait in royalty.” He absently fingered the amulet that hung against his chest, something he did whenever he was reminiscing about the past. “Zurden was . . . uncompromising. Once he had his heart set on something, he would see it through to the end. Or he would try. That poor heart of his. He wore it completely out, between his love for you and his love of the kingdom. I’m amazed he lasted as long as he did. Souls as passionate as his are things which mortal flesh can only hold to this world for so long.  
  
“Of course, a hardy spirit seems to run in your family. You grandfather, for instance . . .”   
  
Zelda sipped her tea as she listened to Mortemus speak of the shining character of her ancestors. For all his liver spots and sagging skin, his memory still seemed diamond sharp. His eyes sparkled with an energy that had abandoned rest of his ancient body. His posture was hunched, his swollen joints snapped and creaked with every move he made, and his large nose—at one time probably quite handsome—now seemed to droop toward his chin. Zelda wondered how old the man really was. Surely a hundred or very close to it. He couldn’t have more than a few years left to him, she thought, looking at the thinning nap of gray hair on his head. She would miss him terribly when he passed. So much wisdom underneath that creased brow, so many memories and lessons that would be buried with him . . .  
  
Mortemus continued his leisurely monologue and Zelda’s eyelids began to grow heavy. He was such a good, sweet old man, Uncle Mortemus. How was she ever going to get along without him? His wisdom and guidance were treasures beyond price. When she needed his counsel, he was always there to offer it. He never judged or patronized her. When she struggled with the unpleasant tasks of ruling a country, he offered her suggestions and helped her find the best solution. Always he was thinking of the good of the kingdom, of preserving the integrity of the royal family. What a crime it would be to allow death to extinguish such a wonderful, loyal individual. Only the Triforce would have the power to extend this dear man’s life. Perhaps she should offer it to him—surely there was nothing to worry about. There wasn’t a more qualified soul in the world to handle the Triforce. Think of the good that Mortemus could do with it, what blessings his wisdom could unlock—  
  
The sound of a windowpane shattering jerked Zelda from the depths of her dreamy state, and she sat up in alarm as a bright blue light came streaking into the room. It was Navi.  
  
“He’s here!” the fairy shouted. “Link is here!”  
  
Zelda scrambled to her feet, her drowsiness suddenly gone. “What?”  
  
Mortemus sprang up astoundingly fast for a man of his years. “Here, what’s the meaning of this? You can’t just burst in like that, breaking windows and upsetting—”  
  
“Link just arrived!” Navi repeated, bobbing frantically in front of Zelda’s face. “He’s at the Temple of Time, but he’s in really bad shape—”  
  
“Bad? What do you mean? Is he hurt?”  
  
“No, but Rauru said he was starting to break the binding spell, and you know how powerful that was! He’s begun to remember things he knew only from the Quest, but until the spell is lifted, those memories are just spilling out at random and bouncing around in his head—he could lose his mind!”  
  
“Damn that spell!” said Zelda, pawing through the blankets to find her other slipper. “I knew it was wrong to use magic to repress his memories. We should never have done that to him. Oh, why didn’t I listen to Impa?”  
  
“Rauru said he’ll start the restoration process as soon as you’re there—”  
  
“No! Tell him to go ahead with it—Link’s life may be in danger and every second counts. I’ll be there as soon as I can. Go now, and thank you, Navi!”  
  
“Right!” the fairy barked, and flew through the broken window pane and into the night.  
  
Mortemus came forward and laid a soothing hand on Zelda’s arm. “Surely you don’t mean to rush out to the Temple at this hour? Sage Rauru can manage the Hero on his own. Here, sit back down and drink your tea, and we’ll see about visiting Link in the morning, when he’s likely to be more—”  
  
Zelda pulled free of his grasp. “I want to be there, Counselor. I’m partly responsible for that binding spell, and if anything happens to Link—”  
  
“Nothing will happen to him. Rauru will undo the spell and he will be perfectly fine by morning. You’re allowing your fear to overpower you, to send you running through the dark like a frightened rabbit.” Mortemus smiled indulgently, like a mother would smile at the irrational tantrums of her idiot child. “Besides, the hour is late. It’s unbecoming for royalty to be seen at such a time, especially a princess. Your father would—”  
  
“My father would understand,” Zelda snapped, tying the belt of her dressing gown. “There are more important things in the world right now than my subjects seeing me in my nightie.”  
  
“Now, your Highness, don’t be—”  
  
“You heard me, Counselor,” she said sternly, her demeanor suddenly regal and powerful. “Summon the members of the Royal Council and lead the proceedings in my absence. Rauru and I will join you once Link’s memory has been restored.”  
  
Mortemus, his placations silenced by Zelda’s queenly orders, bowed his head. “At once, your Highness.”  
  
Zelda gave him a smile of thanks, then turned and vanished through the doors. Her voice echoed through the halls as she called for someone to fetch the stable boy.  
  
Alone in the darkened library, Mortemus lowered himself onto the velvet chaise, his face serene, though his eyes smoldered with resentment. With a swipe of his arm he sent the forgotten teapot and cup crashing to the floor. Warm liquid spilled over books and blankets, staining the icons of comfort with black, violent spatters.

* * *

There was a narrow, well-worn track that encircled the perimeter of Hyrule Castle, winding through dell and dale, a single ribbon of brown dirt amidst a sea of grass. It was used almost exclusively by soldiers and knights who lived in the barracks during their years of early training, though the civilian would find it an ideal place for a summer hike or picnic. On the eve of every new year, the lawn filled with spectators eager to watch the royal fireworks show. But the sky was dark and the track empty at this hour, save for a lone figure on horseback, traveling toward town at an ambling gait.  
  
This was typically the way Ilya ended his day—astride Rijou, meditating and reflecting, calming his mind while putting a few more miles under the colt’s hooves. The training that afternoon hadn’t been particularly difficult, but he had sensed Impa’s frustration at his lack of progress. Simply trying harder wasn’t enough anymore; the tactics that most Sheikah children needed for mastery of certain skills in adulthood were being lost on Ilya, who aged faster than any _shenseh_ could teach. Impa did her best to see that he at least knew the fundamentals of _sheikato_ , but he would never know enough to be able to teach the generation that came after him—if there even was one. Irek, who had served the royal family before Ilya’s mother had taken his place, had been forced into early retirement after he’d been blinded by a fire. He had died last winter and now lay in Kakariko Cemetery beside his wife and three children, two of whom had died in the womb, and the third who lived only a few weeks. Ilya was the last male Sheikah in Hyrule, as well as the youngest. The Sheikah race, rather like his own life, was doomed to end unnaturally early.  
  
Gazing up at the stars twinkling over his head, Ilya wondered, not for the first time, which of his parents was responsible for passing off this terrible affliction on him.  
  
A bright blue comet suddenly streaked across the sky, surprising him. Only it wasn’t a comet—they never left sparkles in their wake, nor did they appear so large and brilliant. It was a fairy.  
  
Ilya drew his horse to a halt. What on earth was a fairy doing out here? Why did it appear to be flying right into town? Hadn’t Impa mentioned something about the Royal Council requesting the aid of Link’s fairy companion? Could that be . . .  
  
Ilya pressed his heels into Rijou’s side and the black colt sprang forward, following the fairy’s fading trail.

* * *

The world churned around Link in shades of blue and gray. Through the shifting curtain of shadow and mist, three bright jewels glowed like a beacon, drawing Link toward them like a moth to a flame. He had nearly reached them when suddenly a young boy with a slingshot and a wooden shield darted out of the ether and ran past him. Link reached out to stop the child and ask him who he was, but the boy ran on without looking back. A flurry of dark shapes followed him, whirling through the air. Keese.  
  
Link shook off the hideous brown corpse clinging to him and staggered forward, calling for the boy to watch out—there was so little of his life left. One strike would finish him. If only he weren’t wearing these iron boots! What use did he have for them here? He bent down and wrestled them off, then moved clumsily across the tile floor in his socks.  
  
Rauru, who saw none of these hallucinations, stood beside the three Spiritual Stones and watched the Hero of Time lurch and flail and beat the empty air about his head. The old Sage had witnessed many disturbing things in his long life, but this was truly difficult to behold. He had not foreseen such disastrous possibilities when he and Zelda had performed the spell which, under the auspices of mercy, had suppressed the memories of the Hero’s dark and difficult quest and sealed them with the Sword. Now he wondered if they hadn’t caused more pain and anguish than if they’d simply let him be.  Link surely wouldn’t last much longer in this state. Either he would faint and be spared from further damage, at least until he later awoke, or his brain would seize under the pressure of trying to process two different lives at the same time and he would die. Rauru couldn’t let that happen.  
  
Link collapsed onto the floor and the Sage hurried to his side. He expected Link to recoil, but the fall seemed to have momentarily cleared his head. He looked up at Rauru, his eyes shining out of his pallid face like torches of blue fire.  
  
“Is he dead, Kaepora? Did the keese get him?”  
  
“There are no keese here, my boy. There never have been. What you saw was a very vivid memory, completely harmless. We can remedy that for you, but you’ll need to come with me. Take my hand and we’ll—”  
  
“No!” cried Link, scrambling backward. “Go away! Leave me alone!”  
  
Rauru rose to his feet with a groan just as Navi came sailing in through one of the upper windows. She flew down and swirled around the Sage’s sweaty red face. “Zelda said to go ahead and lift the spell,” she announced. “She’ll be here as soon as possible. It will probably take longer to lift it alone, but—”  
  
“Yes,” said Rauru, “I’d already decided to do that. However, it appears that our Hero has become irrational, and he’s far too fast for an old man like me. We need to get him to the Sword Chamber, Navi. I don’t suppose you could coax him, could you?”  
  
“I’ll try. Link! Hey! Don’t be afraid, it’s me, Navi.”  
  
Link, who had risen to his feet and was backing his way toward the temple door, swiped his arm at her. “Get away! You’ve done nothing but cause me pain ever since we met. Why couldn’t you have come to me in Kokiri? Where were you when I was the only one without a fairy?”  
  
Navi’s blue aura went purple with dismay. “Oh, Link, don’t say that—I _was_ with you! Remember my promise? That by the end of this day you’d remember everything you’ve forgotten?  This pain and confusion you’re feeling, Sage Rauru can make it all stop. He’s not going to hurt you, Link, he wants to help you!”  
  
“He can’t help me,” said Link, now just a few paces from the door. “And neither can you. I’m broken. Something in me is . . . is missing. And it’s not in this place, it’s out there, out in the dark. I need to go find it.”  
  
“Link, if you go out that door you’re going to die!”  
  
“We’re all going to die, Navi. It’s just a matter of time.”  
  
From the shadows beside the door came a voice: “Strange, I was pondering that very subject a few minutes ago.”  
  
Link whirled around and Ilya stepped into the light, his cowl pulled down to reveal his face. He held his hands up in a peaceful gesture. “Easy, Link,” he said coolly. “Remember me? I’m the Sheikah you met in Kakariko.”  
  
Link looked perplexed to the point of insanity. “Kakari . . . y-you’re Zelda?”  
  
Ilya smiled vaguely. “No, though you once knew me as her Highness. My n—”  
  
“What? That can’t be. You don’t—the Sheikah . . .”  
  
Before Navi knew what was happening, Ilya had darted forward and caught Link as his knees buckled. With effortless fluidity, he ducked down and pulled the groaning Hylian across his shoulders, then began to carry him toward Rauru.  
  
Navi buzzed over Link like a frantic mosquito. “He’s bleeding! Oh, Sheik, hurry, get him to the Sword room!”  
  
“That’s what I’m doing. And my name is Ilya. Sheik is what you called me when Zelda was in my body.”  
  
“I’m sorry. Ilya—”  
  
“For heaven’s sakes, who cares about names at a time like this?” Rauru exclaimed. “Just get him in before he loses consciousness!”  
  
At the foot of the Pedestal of Time, Ilya kneeled down and carefully laid Link on the floor. A line of bright red blood had begun to trickle from one of his nostrils, and his eyes had taken on the glassy dullness of a man preparing to depart the world of the living.  
  
“Whatever you need to do, I suggest you do it quickly, Sage,” muttered Ilya. “He’s fading.”  
  
“I know, lad. Move aside and let—”  
  
Link reached out and grasped the Sheikah’s wrist. “Don’t. Don’t leave . . .”  
  
Shifting his position to accommodate Rauru, Ilya grasped Link’s hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “I’m right here,” he said, and suddenly felt that, in contrast to his earlier notions, he and Link would get along just fine. “Stay with us.”  
  
Rauru placed his hand on Link’s forehead and began to murmur a bizarre series of words in a steady, monotonous tone: “ _Os ti ekam rewop ruoy yb dna, dlog sesseddog, sdrow ruo raeh . . ._ ”  
  
“What’s he saying, Navi?” Ilya whispered.  
  
“It’s a reversal of the incantation they used to restrain Link’s memories,” said Navi, perching on the Sheikah’s shoulder. “I think it goes: _Seven years of flowing time, to this Master sword we bind. All memory of noble Quest, in quiet shadow we suppress. Dwell no more upon this day, but let it slowly fade away. Hear our words, Goddesses gold, and by your power make it so_. It’s very difficult to get just right, especially backwards.”  
  
“Then I guess we should shut up and let him concentrate, shouldn’t we?”  
  
“Yes, that would probably be wise.”  
  
While the Sage of Light continued his slow and deliberate recitation, Navi and Ilya could see the tension leave Link’s face, his tortured expression gradually settling into one of placid neutrality. And when Rauru finished the last verse and lifted his hand, Link’s eyes blinked sleepily open.  
  
“Sage Rauru? What . . . Where am I?”  
  
“In a much better state than you were a few moments ago, my lad. But you’re still not out of the woods yet; come, sit up. You may no longer be fighting against a rush of disconnected memories, but as yet they have no substance to which they can bind themselves; you need to draw the Master Sword—it will set everything in its proper place.”  
  
Ilya and Rauru each took and arm and pulled the groggy Link to his feet. “I’m so tired,” he mumbled. “Can I go to sleep after this?”  
  
“Lad, you can go to the moon after this if you like. Just pull the Sword from the stone. You’ve got seven extra years of unmoored memories floating around in your brain, and we need to get them anchored quickly.”  
  
Link nodded dully and stepped toward the pedestal. Despite the dimness of the chamber, the Master Sword gleamed where it stood, its blade as clean and sharp as if it had just been forged. Link reached out and wrapped both hands around the violet-colored hilt. Suddenly he could recall how he felt as a boy, grasping this sword for the first time with his small, unskilled hands. It had been so heavy to him then. But that was impossible. The only sword he’d ever touched was a short, dull thing that Bazlo let him practice with. He hadn’t been a child then. There were no swords like this in Kokiri.  
  
“What is going on?” Link whispered, his eyes filling with anguished tears. “Are these memories mine? Who am I? What am I?”  
  
“You are the Hero of Time,” said Navi, flying close to his ear. “Draw the Sword and you’ll understand.”  
  
Rauru looked over at Ilya. “You should probably move back, young man.”  
  
Ilya took a generous step backward.  
  
Link closed his eyes and drew in a breath. His head felt so full, his body heavy with exhaustion. Just one more time, he told himself. One last time.  
  
Summoning his remaining strength, he pulled the Master Sword from its stand. It lifted easily, grating against the stone until the blade was completely free. A vacuum of silence sucked all sound from the room and a multicolored aurora engulfed him. The heaviness left his body and he became as weightless as a feather. He raised the sword above his head, and the pressure that had been squeezing his skull for the past hour abruptly diminished. His mind, once a hurricane of disorder, grew still. Memories began to fall into place, slowly at first, then rapidly in succession:  
  
A fairy friend. The Great Deku. Spiders and shadows. The Kokiri Emerald. Leaving the Forest. Princess Zelda. Ganondorf. A blue ocarina. The Zoras. A windmill. Fire and dragons. Music, music everywhere, the sound of every song in the world being played at once. Height, strength, power, magic, horses, hookshots, arrows, deserts, mountains, lakes—seven years revealed, and each day belonging to Link.  
  
The three spectators stared transfixed at the blazing, sparkling nebula before them. Ilya was so engrossed in the magical event that he wasn’t aware of the new presence until it was already within striking distance. He turned suddenly, knife in hand, but balked at the sight of Princess Zelda. She too was entranced by the light; it cast harsh shadows on her face and made her appear older than her years.  
  
Ilya sheathed his blade. He should apologize for drawing arms on royalty, but he was embarrassed at being caught unaware and slightly annoyed by the Princess’s unexpected appearance—she had no business being here, especially in her state. She looked as if she had just rolled out of her sickbed. He drew his breath to speak, but the words died in his throat when her gentle, searching hand found his arm. He examined her face more closely and saw that she was simultaneously overjoyed and terrified. Tears shimmered in her eyes and her lips quivered as she smiled faintly. She looked like a beautiful, tortured ghost.  
  
Sympathetically, Ilya put his arm around her and pulled up the shoulder of her dressing gown from where it had slipped down. Zelda didn’t notice the gesture, but she found the Sheikah’s other hand and grasped it tightly, her unblinking eyes fixed upon the blazing column of light.  
  
Abruptly the light faded and the chamber was plunged into shadow once more. Ilya’s eyes adjusted to the dark more quickly than the others’ and he beheld Link standing before the pedestal, as motionless as the stone itself. No one in the room breathed. Zelda began to tremble, and her nails inadvertently dug into the back of the Sheikah’s hand.  
  
Everyone started when the sword that Link held suddenly clattered the floor. Zelda let out a cry and flew up the dais stairs as Link began to topple. She managed to catch him about the shoulders, and though she was strong for her size, she was both outweighed and overtaxed; they fell to the floor in a clumsy tangle. A hot knife of pain sliced into her knee as it twisted unnaturally, but it was the placement of her leg which kept Link’s head from colliding with the stone tile. She gritted her teeth as her eyes watered, but it wasn’t until she looked down at his face that she burst into tears.  
  
Link’s face was smooth, tranquil, and completely devoid of life.  
  
At the sound of her cry, Ilya and Rauru rushed up the steps and crouched down. Navi whirled from one person to the next as they all began to talk over one other. Zelda was sobbing hysterically.  
  
“He’s dead! Gods and grace, he’s dead!”  
  
“Check him, Ilya.”  
  
“I already have—he’s alive. He’s just unconsc—”  
  
“No, no, he’s dead! Just look at him! He’s not breathing! Oh, loving Nayru, the blood—just look at the blood!”  
  
Rauru and Ilya met eyes briefly, sharing an unspoken communication. The Sheikah nodded his assent and went to remove Link’s limp body from where it was pinning Zelda down, but she grasped onto Link’s tunic and refused to let go.  
  
“Don’t take him away from me yet! Please, let me have just a few moments—”  
  
“Princess, you are not well,” said Rauru, gently prying her clutching hands free. “Come now, you need to rest.”  
  
“How can I rest!” she wailed. “Link is _dead_! I will never sleep _again_!”  
  
The Sage heaved a weary sigh and massaged his brow. Navi flew to his shoulder. “What can I do?” she asked softly.  
  
“Fetch the healer,” he said after a moment. “Not Mortemus, but the royal doctor. Bring him here. I’ll have the Sheikah tend to Link until he wakes. Quickly now.”  
  
Navi shot away on her errand. Rauru turned his eyes once more on Princess Zelda, who was weeping bitter tears onto Link’s moving, breathing chest.  
  
“I hope you can save us, lad,” he muttered. “Before this whole kingdom goes insane.”


End file.
